CHAPTER III 



SPRING HAMPSHIRE KENT SURREY 



NEXT day the wind has flown and the snow is again 

 almost rain : there is ever a hint of pale sky above, but it 

 is not as luminous as the earth. The trees over the road 

 have a beauty of darkness and moistness. Beyond them 

 the earth is a sainted corpse, with a blue light over it that 

 is fast annihilating all matter and turning the landscape 

 to a spirit only. Night and the snow descend upon it, 

 and at dawn the nests are full of snow. The yews and 

 junipers on a league of Downs are chequered white upon 

 white slopes, and the green larches support cirrus clouds 

 of snow. In the garden the daffodils bend criss-cross 

 under snow that cannot quite conceal the yellow flowers. 

 But the snow has ceased. The sky is at first pale without 

 a cloud and tender as from a long imprisonment; it 

 deepens in hue as the sun climbs and gathers force. The 

 crooked paths up the Downs begin to glitter like streaks 

 of lightning. The thrushes sing. From the straight dark 

 beeches the snow cannot fall fast enough in great drops, 

 in showers, in masses that release the boughs with a 

 quiver and a gleam. The green leaves close to the 

 ground creep out, and against them the snow is blue. 

 A little sighing wind rustles ivy and juniper and yew. 

 The sun mounts, and from his highest battlement of 

 cloud blows a long blast of light over the pure land. 

 Once more the larch is wholly green, the beech rosy 

 brown with buds. A cart goes by all a-gleam with a 



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