Pure is the
colour of the green flags, the slender-pointed blades--let the thought be
pure as the light that shines through that colour. Broad are the downs
and open the aspect--gather the breadth and largeness of view. Never can
that view be wide enough and large enough, there will always be room to
aim higher. As the air of the hills enriches the blood, so let the
presence of these beautiful things enrich the inner sense. One memory of
the green corn, fresh beneath the sun and wind, will lift up the heart
from the clods.
HAUNTS OF THE LAPWING
I--WINTER
Coming like a white wall the rain reaches me, and in an instant
everything is gone from sight that is more than ten yards distant. The
narrow upland road is beaten to a darker hue, and two runnels of water
rush along at the sides, where, when the chalk-laden streamlets dry, blue
splinters of flint will be exposed in the channels. For a moment the air
seems driven away by the sudden pressure, and I catch my breath and stand
still with one shoulder forward to receive the blow. Hiss, the land
shudders under the cold onslaught; hiss, and on the blast goes, and the
sound with it, for the very fury of the rain, after the first second,
drowns its own noise.
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