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137
The Solitary Summer
·
Elizabeth Von Arnim
38
It
is
clear
that
I
was
born
for
a
placid
country
life,
and
placid
it
certainly
is;
so
much
so
that
the
days
are
sometimes
far
more
like
a
dream
than
anything
real,
the
quiet
days
of
reading,
and
thinking,
and
watching
the
changing
lights,
and
the
growth
and
fading
of
the
flowers,
the
fresh
quiet
days
when
life
is
so
full
of
zest
that
you
cannot
stop
yourself
from
singing
because
you
are
so
happy,
the
warm
quiet
days
lying
on
the
grass
in
a
secluded
corner
observing
the
procession
of
clouds--this
being,
I
admit,
a
particularly
undignified
attitude,
but
think
of
the
edification!
Each
morning
the
simple
act
of
opening
my
bedroom
windows
is
the
means
of
giving
me
an
ever-recurring
pleasure.
Just
underneath
them
is
a
border
of
rockets
in
full
flower,
at
that
hour
in
the
shadow
of
the
house,
whose
gables
lie
sharply
defined
on
the
grass
beyond,
and
they
send
up
their
good
morning
of
scent
the
moment
they
see
me
leaning
out,
careful
not
to
omit
the
pretty
German
custom
of
morning
greeting.
I
call
back
mine,
embellished
with
many
endearing
words,
and
then
their
fragrance
comes
up
close,
and
covers
my
face
with
gentlest
little
kisses.
Behind
them,
on
the
other
side
of
the
lawn
on
this
west
side
of
the
house,
is
a
thick
hedge
of
lilac
just
now
at
its
best,
and
what
that
best
is
I
wish
all
who
love
lilac
could
see.
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