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235
The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft
·
George Gissing
165
XVIII.
I
cannot
close
my
eyes
upon
this
day
without
setting
down
some
record
of
it;
yet
the
foolish
insufficiency
of
words!
At
sunrise
I
looked
forth;
nowhere
could
I
discern
a
cloud
the
size
of
a
man's
hand;
the
leaves
quivered
gently,
as
if
with
joy
in
the
divine
morning
which
glistened
upon
their
dew.
At
sunset
I
stood
in
the
meadow
above
my
house,
and
watched
the
red
orb
sink
into
purple
mist,
whilst
in
the
violet
heaven
behind
me
rose
the
perfect
moon.
All
between,
through
the
soft
circling
of
the
dial's
shadow,
was
loveliness
and
quiet
unutterable.
Never,
I
could
fancy,
did
autumn
clothe
in
such
magnificence
the
elms
and
beeches;
never,
I
should
think,
did
the
leafage
on
my
walls
blaze
in
such
royal
crimson.
It
was
no
day
for
wandering;
under
a
canopy
of
blue
or
gold,
where
the
eye
could
fall
on
nothing
that
was
not
beautiful,
enough
to
be
at
one
with
Nature
in
dreamy
rest.
From
stubble
fields
sounded
the
long
caw
of
rooks;
a
sleepy
crowing
ever
and
anon
told
of
the
neighbour
farm;
my
doves
cooed
above
their
cot.
Was
it
for
five
minutes,
or
was
it
for
an
hour,
that
I
watched
the
yellow
butterfly
wafted
as
by
an
insensible
tremor
of
the
air
amid
the
garden
glintings?
In
every
autumn
there
comes
one
such
flawless
day.
None
that
I
have
known
brought
me
a
mind
so
touched
to
the
fitting
mood
of
welcome,
and
so
fulfilled
the
promise
of
its
peace.
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