The wind has veered a point
northerly, and the barometer is rising. This morning at half-past five
the valley below was filled with white mist. Above it the tops of the
trees on the highest points emerged sharply distinct. It was
motionless, but gradually melted before the ascending sun, recalling
Plutarch's "scenes in the beautiful temple of the world which the gods
order at their own festivals, when we are initiated into their own
mysteries." Here was a divine mystery, with initiation for those who
cared for it. No priests were waiting, no ritual was necessary, the
service was simple--solitary adoration and perfect silence.
As the day advances, masses of huge, heavy clouds appear. They are well
defined at the edges, and their intricate folds and depths are
brilliantly illuminated. The infinitude of the sky is not so impressive
when it is quite clear as when it contains and supports great clouds,
and large blue spaces are seen between them. On the hillsides the
fields here and there are yellow and the corn is in sheaves. The birds
are mostly dumb, the glory of the furze and broom has passed, but the
heather is in flower.
Pages:
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29