For two hours it has filled my ears
and brought a deeper repose than that of mere silence. It is not
uniform, for the voices of innumerable descending threads of water
with varying impulses can be distinguished, but it is a unity.
Myriads of bubbles rise from the leaping foam at the bottom, float
away for a few yards and then break.
It is the very summit of the year, the brief poise of perfection.
In two or three weeks the days will be noticeably shorter, the
harvest will begin, and we shall be on our way downwards to autumn,
to dying leaves and to winter.
A SUNDAY MORNING IN NOVEMBER
The walk from the high moorland to the large pond or lake lies
through a narrow grassy lane. About half-way down it turns sharply
to the left; in front are the bluish-green pine woods. Across the
corner of them, confronting me, slants a birch with its white bark
and delicate foliage, light-green and yellow in relief against the
sombre background. Fifty yards before I reach the wood its music is
perceptible, something like the tones of an organ heard outside a
cathedral.
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