THE END OF SUMMER 275 



at night the little showers, the spongy mists, the tempest- 

 uous mountain rain. I like to see it possessing the whole 

 earth at evening, smothering civilization, taking away 

 from me myself everything except the power to walk 

 under the dark trees and to enjoy as humbly as the hissing 

 grass, while some twinkling house-light or song sung by 

 a lonely man gives a foil to the immense dark force. I 

 like to see the rain making the streets, the railway station, 

 a pure desert, whether bright with lamps or not. It foams 

 off the roofs and trees and bubbles into the water-butts. 

 It gives the grey rivers a daemonic majesty. It scours the 

 roads, sets the flints moving, and exposes the glossy chalk 

 in the tracks through the woods. It does work that will 

 last as long as the earth. It is about eternal business. In 

 its noise and myriad aspect I feel the mortal beauty of 

 immortal things. And then after many days the rain 

 ceases at midnight with the wind, and in the silence of 

 dawn and frost the last rose of the world is dropping her 

 petals down to the glistering whiteness, and there they 

 rest blood-red on the winter's desolate coast. 



T 2 



