No man can see the movement of a growing daisy, just as no
man can distinguish the separate beats of a sparrow's wing: one is too
slow, and the other is too quick. But the daisy is practically all
eye. It is aware of most delightful things. In its short life of
months it lives through an eternity of unhurrying perceptions and of
big sensations. Its youth, its loves, its pleasures are--to it--quite
endless....
"I can see the old sun moving," she murmured, "but you will love me
for ever, won't you?"
"Even till it sinks behind the hills," he answered, "I shall not
change."
"So long we have been friends already," she went on. "Do you remember
when we first met each other, and you looked into my opening eyes?"
He sighed with joy as he thought of the long, long stretch of time.
"That was in our first reckless youth," he answered, catching the gold
of passionate remembrance from an amber fly that hovered for an
instant and was gone. "I remember well. You were half hidden by a drop
of hanging dew, but I discovered you! That lilac bud across the world
was just beginning to open." And, helped by the wind, he bent his
shining head, taller than hers by the sixtieth part of an inch,
towards the lilac trees beside the gravel path.
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