Summer
One has the leisure of July for （perceiving ）all the differences of the green of leaves. It is no longer a difference in degrees of maturity, for all the trees have darkened to their final tone, and stand in their differences of character and not of mere date. Almost all the green is grave, not sad and not dull. It has a darkened and a daily color, in （majestic） but not obvious harmony with dark grey skies,and might look, to（ inconstant） eyes, as prosaic after spring as eleven o'clock looks after the dawn.
Gravity is the world—not solemnity as towards evening,nor menace as at night. The daylight trees of July are signs of common beauty, common freshness,and a mystery （familiar） and abiding as night and day. In childhood we all have a more exalted sense of dawn and summer sunrise than we ever fully retain or （quite） recover; and also a far higher sensibility for April and April evenings—a heartache for them, which in riper years is gradually and （irretrievably） consoled.
But, on the other hand,childhood has so quickly learned to find daily things tedious,
and familiar things importunate,that it has no great delight in the mere middle of the day,and feels （weariness） of the summer that has ceased to change （visibly）.
The poetry of mere day and of late summer becomes perceptive to mature eyes that have long ceased to be sated, have taken leave of weariness, and cannot now find anything in nature too familiar; eyes which have, indeed, lost sight of the further awe of （midsummer） day break, and no longer see so much of the past in April （twilight） as they saw when they had no past; but which look freshly at the dailiness of green summer, of early afternoon, of every sky of any form that comes to pass, and of the darkened elms.
Excerpt:From July.
by Alice Meynell
