SUMMER 185 



sparks. The Downs are heaved up into the h'ghted sky 

 — surely they heave in their tranquiUity as with a slowly 

 taken breath. The moon is half-way up the sky and 

 exactly over the centre of the long curve of Downs; just 

 above them lies a long terrace of white cloud, and at their 

 feet gleams a broad pond, the rest of the valley being 

 utterly dark and indistinguishable, save a few scattered 

 lamps and one near meadow that catches the moonlight 

 so as to be transmuted to a lake. But every rainy leaf 

 upon the hill is brighter than any of the few stars above, 

 and from many leaves and blades hang drops as large and 

 bright as the glowworms in their recesses. Larger by a 

 little, but not brighter, are the threes and fours of lights 

 at windows in the valley. The wind has fallen, but a 

 mile of woods unlading the rain from their leaves make 

 a sound of wind, while each separate drop can be heard 

 from the nearest branches, a noise of rapt content, as if 

 they were telling over again the kisses of the shower. 

 The air itself is heavy as mead with the scent of yew and 

 juniper and thyme. 



