After
I had looked long at it, and passed on, the image of that perfect
flower remained so persistently in my mind that on the following
day I went again, in the hope of seeing it still untouched by
decay. There was no change; and on this occasion I spent a much
longer time looking at it, admiring the marvellous beauty of its
form, which seemed so greatly to exceed that of all other
flowers. It had thick petals, and at first gave me the idea of
an artificial flower, cut by a divinely inspired artist from some
unknown precious stone, of the size of a large orange and whiter
than milk, and yet, in spite of its opacity, with a crystalline
lustre on the surface. Next day I went again, scarcely hoping to
find it still unwithered; it was fresh as if only just opened;
and after that I went often, sometimes at intervals of several
days, and still no faintest sign of any change, the clear,
exquisite lines still undimmed, the purity and lustre as I had
first seen it. Why, I often asked, does not this mystic forest
flower fade and perish like others? That first impression of its
artificial appearance had soon left me; it was, indeed, a flower,
and, like other flowers, had life and growth, only with that
transcendent beauty it had a different kind of life.
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