suspense so often to be noted after the first The 

 syllable. For all its harshness there are few Coming 

 sounds of the summer-dusk so welcome. It 

 speaks of heat : of long shadow- weaving after- 

 noons : of labour ceased, of love begun, of 

 dreams within dreams. The very memory of 

 it fills the mind as with silent garths of hay, 

 with pastures ruddy with sorrel, lit by the 

 last flusht glow or by the yellow gold of the 

 moon, paling as it rises. The white moth is 

 out ; the dew is on the grass, the orchis, the 

 ghostly clover ; the flittermouse is here, is 

 yonder, is here again ; a late mallard flies like 

 a whirring bolt overhead, or a homing cushat 

 cleaves the air-waves as with rapid oars. As 

 a phantom, a white owl drifts past and greys 

 into the dusk, like flying foam into gathering 

 mist. In the dew-moist air an innumerable 

 rumour becomes a monotone : the breath of 

 life, suppressed, husht, or palpitant. A wilder- 

 ness of wild-roses has been crushed, and their 

 fragrance diffused among the dove-grey and 

 harebell-blue and pansy-purple veils of twi- 

 light : or is it a wilderness of honeysuckle ; or 

 of meadowsweet ; or of the dew-wet hay ; or 

 lime-blossom and brier, galingale and the tufted 

 reed and the multitude of the fern ? It is 

 fragrance, ineffable, indescribable : odour born 

 under the pale fire of the moon, under the 



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