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137
The Solitary Summer
·
Elizabeth Von Arnim
43
I
got
up
and
turned
my
face
away
from
the
unbearable,
indifferent
brightness.
Myriads
of
small
suns
danced
before
my
eyes
as
I
went
along
the
edge
of
the
stream
to
the
seat
round
the
oak
in
my
spring
garden,
where
I
sat
a
little,
looking
at
the
morning
from
there,
drinking
it
in
in
long
breaths,
and
determining
to
think
of
nothing
but
just
be
happy.
What
a
smell
of
freshly
mown
grass
there
was,
and
how
the
little
heaps
into
which
it
had
been
raked
the
evening
before
sparkled
with
dewdrops
as
the
sun
caught
them.
And
over
there,
how
hot
the
poppies
were
already
beginning
to
look--blazing
back
boldly
in
the
face
of
the
sun,
flashing
back
fire
for
fire.
I
crossed
the
wet
grass
to
the
hammock
under
the
beech
on
the
lawn,
and
lay
in
it
awhile
trying
to
swing
in
time
to
the
nightingale's
tune;
and
then
I
walked
round
the
ice-house
to
see
how
Goethe's
corner
looked
at
such
an
hour;
and
then
I
went
down
to
the
fir
wood
at
the
bottom
of
the
garden
where
the
light
was
slanting
through
green
stems;
and
everywhere
there
was
the
same
mystery,
and
emptiness,
and
wonder.
When
four
o'clock
drew
near
I
set
off
home
again,
not
desiring
to
meet
gardeners
and
have
my
little
hour
of
quiet
talked
about,
still
less
my
dressing-gown
and
slippers;
so
I
picked
a
bunch
of
roses
and
hurried
in,
and
just
as
I
softly
bolted
the
door,
dreadfully
afraid
of
being
taken
for
a
burglar,
I
heard
the
first
water-cart
of
the
day
creaking
round
the
corner.
Fearfully
I
crept
up
to
my
room,
and
when
I
awoke
at
eight
o'clock
and
saw
the
roses
in
a
glass
by
my
side,
I
remembered
what
had
happened
as
though
it
had
been
years
ago.
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