Last nig to a artan road to listen to some Irised for t t try beauty    no    must turn its s ears to listen. Presently a score of men and boys and girls, rees to listen. Somebody sang Sa Muirnin Diles, and tor, mournful songs of separation, of deatood up and began to dance, o, and t glad song of meeting    to    uain I looked at every day ted into trees, and oo melted aions of men. No titude of mind, aional form, t o older verses, or even totten myt it o one of t uo ts of trees    of knoory tages t    s to carry one as far, for t a little of t, one kno ties to t is, i of tocracies of t, and because it refuses rivial, tty, as certainly as t o itself t and most unfetable ts of tions, it is t art is rooted.    is spoken by tel, appreciation of ts t a single mind gives unity and design to, spreads quickly ws hour is e.

        In a society t    out imaginative tradition, only a fe of millions—favoured by ters and by ance, and only ter muding of imaginative t “tion is the man himself.”

        ts into tood t    in broken    does not fall silent. And so it o me t radition by making old songs live again, or by gatories into books, take part in t a feual poverty, take part also. t is    cried out, “If t t not Caesar’s friend.”

        1901.
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