The violets, along the river, are opening their blue faces, like small dark lanterns. The green mosses, being so many, are as good as brawny. The swan, for all his pomp, his robes of grass and petals, wants only to be allowed to live on the nameless pond. The catbrier is without fault. The water thrushes, down among the sloppy rocks, are going crazy with happiness.
Imagination is better than a sharp instrument.
To pay attention, this is our endless and proper work.