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137
The Solitary Summer
·
Elizabeth Von Arnim
41
It
was
wonderfully
quiet,
and
the
nightingale
on
the
hornbeam
had
everything
to
itself
as
I
sat
motionless
watching
that
glow
in
the
east
burning
redder;
wonderfully
quiet,
and
so
wonderfully
beautiful
because
one
associates
daylight
with
people,
and
voices,
and
bustle,
and
hurryings
to
and
fro,
and
the
dreariness
of
working
to
feed
our
bodies,
and
feeding
our
bodies
that
we
may
be
able
to
work
to
feed
them
again;
but
here
was
the
world
wide
awake
and
yet
only
for
me,
all
the
fresh
pure
air
only
for
me,
all
the
fragrance
breathed
only
by
me,
not
a
living
soul
hearing
the
nightingale
but
me,
the
sun
in
a
few
moments
coming
up
to
warm
only
me,
and
nowhere
a
single
hard
word
being
spoken,
or
a
single
selfish
act
being
done,
nowhere
anything
that
could
tarnish
the
blessed
purity
of
the
world
as
God
has
given
it
us.
If
one
believed
in
angels
one
would
feel
that
they
must
love
us
best
when
we
are
asleep
and
cannot
hurt
each
other;
and
what
a
mercy
it
is
that
once
in
every
twenty-four
hours
we
are
too
utterly
weary
to
go
on
being
unkind.
The
doors
shut,
and
the
lights
go
out,
and
the
sharpest
tongue
is
silent,
and
all
of
us,
scolder
and
scolded,
happy
and
unhappy,
master
and
slave,
judge
and
culprit,
are
children
again,
tired,
and
hushed,
and
helpless,
and
forgiven.
And
see
the
blessedness
of
sleep,
that
sends
us
back
for
a
space
to
our
early
innocence.
Are
not
our
first
impulses
on
waking
always
good?
Do
we
not
all
know
how
in
times
of
wretchedness
our
first
thoughts
after
the
night's
sleep
are
happy?
We
have
been
dreaming
we
are
happy,
and
we
wake
with
a
smile,
and
stare
still
smiling
for
a
moment
at
our
stony
griefs
before
with
a
stab
we
recognise
them.
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