TALL TREES RIM THE CREST 
us like the assessor. He invades our quiet and disturbs our receipts, 
and reminds us we are not in Arcadia, which, prior to his coming, was 
our settled belief). And while I lie in the shade beside my spring on 
the north line of my estate and on the lowest levels my farm reaches, 
it is sweet to half drowse, half wake in the quiet while the wooded 
hills high above shut out all boisterousness of wind, so that here truly 
summer quiet lies. The day dreams. It is noon. A crow intermit- 
tently and lazily calls his “ caw, caw,” but the birds seem tired out, and a 
quiet and languid breeze is all that puffs summer perfumes in my face. 
And the slow clouds float by like icebergs seen afar, but by and by 
even the clouds fall wholly asleep. Watching them through the leaves 
they affect me as having forgotten action long ago, or push lazily for- 
ward, like a drifting boat, and then sink back into slumber again. But 
the oatfield on the farm running up the hill’s slope to the woods, nods 
its thousands heads so sagaciously, as if to say, ‘‘ No doubt, no doubt, 
that is the truth of it.” And upon the hill, where the tall trees rim 
the crest, how solemnly the trees toss to the wind: If one were under 
their shadows there would be laughter in the leaves and the sunlight 
sifting through, but thus far removed there is neither sunlight nor 
music, only the solemn waving to and fro of plumes, looking strangely 
dark against the sky of utter blue. In this accord of motion seen afar 
is something exceeding remote, as if from some far headland jutting 
out into the spiritual sea, dim companies were signaling us in stately 
and rhythmic fashion. In the far off elm-trees is the wind that does 
not blow on me, nor draw near my green hollow lying in the shadow; 
and looking from afar thus seeming like a boat with oars that dip and 
lift, out on water against the sky when you hear no drip of water 
from the lifted oar, nor dip of oar touching the water again, nor any 
lap of water against the keel. Thus I love the quiet of this croft, where 
the spring is better than wine for my thirsty lips; but I leave it and 
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