I HAVE LOOKED on this picture in many a month of March when the mustard is in bloom-this lazy line of the water and the grey of the sand beyond, the rough path along the river-bank carrying the comradeship of the field into the heart of the village.

        I have tried to capture in rhyme the idle whistle of the wind, the beat of the oar-strokes from a passing boat

        I have wondered in my mind how simply it stands before me, this great world: with what fond and familiar ease it fills my heart, this encounter with the Eternal Stranger.