July 2. Portable Property.
Reading edition
The Chinese pinks are in full bloom now. I have gathered pounds of them and arranged them in vases, and the mere outline of their feathery grey-green foliage, set with those fringed flecks of warm colour, makes existence seem an agreeable thing. The sound of children's voices outside, the smell of the cut grass, and the blue of the day, all seemed freshly sweet and pleasant because of the pleasure the freaked beauty of the bowls full of pinks give me. I am sorry for the people who don't care for flowers. The amiability they always awake in me is one of my most valued bits of secret property. That is the kind of possession that moth and rust cannot corrupt. It is safe from burglars, and even age does not wither one's satisfaction in such belongings. Most of my life I have been poor, as the world reckons poverty, but in reality I have owned more than many millionaires.
It seems to me a wise thing to store up private wealth early. My nose to me a kingdom is, and emperors and any millionaire might envy me the possession of my ears and eyes. There are pale-souled philosophers who declare their contempt for the power of gold, and some narrow dull-witted folk are really oppressed by luxury—all of which seems nonsense to me; but if one can't and most of us can't, have high stepping horses, good frocks, paid service, and expensive homes, one can at least own tangible treasures of smells and sights and sounds. And, ah! the odd bits of poetry I possess....
Now rising through the rosy wine of thought Bright-beaded memories sparkle at the brim Of the mind's chalice. Golden phrases wrought By the great poets bubble to its brim. My poets—as the patterned skies are mine, The perfumes and the murmurs of the sea Are all mine own—their cadences divine Seem as my goodly heritage to me. They trace the measures of all hidden things, And into worded magic can translate The hidden harmonies which Nature sings; Her mighty music inarticulate. And who will list hears sonorous vibrations As though their thoughts strung harps from earth to heaven That rung with golden, glad reverberations As wide-winged dreams breathed through their strings at even.