It had
been one of those days of cloudless skies, all flooded with the
pale cold honey-coloured light of the winter sun, until a sense
almost of spring came into the air; and in a sheltered place I
found a little golden hawk-weed in full flower.
It had not been a satisfactory day at all to me. The statement that
I had toiled so hard all the morning to make clear was not
particularly worth making; it could effect but little at best, and
I had worked at it in a British doggedness of spirit, regardless of
its value and only because I was determined not to be beaten by it.
But for all that I came home in a rare and delightful frame of
mind, as if I had heard a brief and delicate passage of music, a
conspiracy of sweet sounds and rich tones; or as if I had passed
through a sweet scent, such as blows from a clover-field in summer.
There was no definite thought to disentangle: it was rather as if I
had had a glimpse of the land which lies east of the sun and west
of the moon, had seen the towers of a castle rise over a wood of
oaks; met a company of serious people in comely apparel riding
blithely on the turf of a forest road, who had waved me a greeting,
and left me wondering out of what rich kind of scene they had
stepped to bless me.
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