"We are accustomed
to consider Winter the grave of the year, but it is not so in reality. In the
stripped trees, the mute birds, the disconsolate gardens, the frosty ground,
there is only an apparent cessation of Nature's activities. Winter is pause in
music, but during the pause the musicians are privately tuning their strings,
to prepare for the coming outburst. When the curtain falls on one piece at the
theatre, the people are busy behind the scenes making arrangements for that
which is to follow. Winter is such pause, such fall of the curtain.
Underground, beneath snow and frost, next spring and summer are secretly
getting ready. The roses which young ladies will gather six months hence for
hair or bosom, are already in hand. In Nature there is no such thing as
paralysis. Each thing flows into the other, as movement into movement in
graceful dances Nature's colours blend in imperceptible gradation all her notes
are sequacious."
(Alexander Smith, 1829 -1867)
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