XL 

 A NORTHERN VALLEY 



" Do our woods 



And winds and ponds cover more quiet woods, 

 More shining winds, more star-glimmering ponds ? . . . 

 Is Eden out of time and out of space?" 



W. B. YEATS. 



'"T'VHE seven miles of valley between the Spring tides but these may be 



the mountains and the sea de- known quickly, for they never rustle, 



velop and abandon many characters. The mountains are unaware of the 



On one hand the limiting hills are sea : even a Winter sun stirs a scent to 



ridged with long terraces of creviced betray their hidden thyme-beds, and 



limestone above an iron-stained soil ; the wind's savour of salt is overcome, 



the hills opposed are craggy with slate- Where these steep dark mountains begin 



rock on their higher slopes, while the a lake lies among meadows : in the 



fields of the valley have many ample silence before an August dawn a strong 



knolls where boulders of slate j ut amid swimmer has dropped into the dark 



a crown of oaks or sweeping beeches, wa-ter, that lapped against his pale 



In March the crumbling soil of the loins, to reach water-lilies in a small 



lower slopes darkens to the plough, calm bay ; the flowers rocked as he 



but becomes grey again in the first approached, and unready buds emerged 



East wind. from a receding wave ; he dived to 



The shore is that of a wide sandy break the wandering bare stems far 



bay where shallow tides fill and empty down, and the flowers dipped to rise 



with brief broad flingings : low hills with him. Soon he passed through 



surround it, and pool-pierced marshes lanes of corn with lily sceptres leaning 



are its border. These long marshes of against his polished side, 



the bay always bear sea-pinks that Between the mountains and the sea 



rustle, dry blossoms whose season it is are many woods ; those which rise 



difficult to know because salt makes with the valley slopes are of oak, beech 



grey their first hint of rose and a last and ash, with some elm and sycamore 



touch of dubious rose lingers in the and still fewer wild cherry and crab 



dead blossoms the salt preserves ; its trees that bring a breathing pallor in 



only other flowers are grey also, the May. Above these a hill is sometimes 



small pearly bones of rats drowned by covered with the serried monotony of 



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