By May， the nightingale will sing an unbroken song， and the discreet， barely audible Tuscan cuckoo will be a little more audible. Then the lovely pale-lilac irises will come out in all their showering abundance of tender， proud， spiky bloom， till the air will gleam with mauve， and a new crystalline lightness will be everywhere.
There will be tufts of iris everywhere， arising up proud and tender. When the rose-coloured wild gladiolus is mingled in the corn， and the love-in-the-mist opens blue： in May and June， before the corn is cut.
But as yet is neither May nor June， but the end of April， the pause between spring and summer， the nightingale singing uninterrupted， the bean-flowers dying in the bean-fields， the bean-perfume passing with spring， the little birds hatching in the nests， the olives pruned， and the vines， the last bit of late ploughing finished， and not much work to hand， now， not until the peas are ready to pick， in another two weeks or so.
So the change， the endless and rapid change. In the sunny countries， the change seems more vivid， and more complete than in the grey countries. In the grey countries， there is a grey or dark permanency， over whose surface passes change ephemeral， leaving no real mark.
But in the sunny countries， change is the reality and permanence is artificial and a condition of imprisonment. Hence， to the northerner， the phenomenal world is essentially tragical， because it is temporal and must cease to exist. Its very existence implies ceasing to exist， and this is the root of the feeling of tragedy.
But to the southerner， the sun is so dominant that shadow， or dark， is only merely relative： merely the result of something getting between one and the sun.
In the human race， the one thing that is always there is the shining sun， and dark shadow is an accident of intervention.
For my part， if the sun always shine， and always will shine， in spite of millions of clouds of words. In the sunshine， even death is sunny. And there is no end to the sunshine.