THE PRAYER OF THE FLOWERS
IT was the voice of the flowers on the West wind, the lovable, the old, the lazy West wind, blowing ceaselessly, blowing sleepily, going Greecewards.
"The woods have gone away, they have fallen and left us; men love us no longer, we are lonely by moonlight. Great engines rush over the beautiful fields, their ways lie hard and terrible up and down the land.
"The cancrous cities spread over the grass, they clatter in their lairs continually, they glitter about us blemishing the night.
"The woods are gone, O Pan, the woods, the woods. And thou art far, O Pan, and far away."
I was standing by night between two railway embankments on the edge of a Mid-
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