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246 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1921
Every dawn for centuries it had seen the darkness paling before the flowing light, the room filled with spectral atoms not thrown in one direction, but moving in invisible silence everywhere. The sun had sent its broad beams through the elm trees in the morning, casting instant shadows behind them, had swung through lucent space, and lacquered the room with gold, changing at sunset to a purpurate red. One by one the stars had crept into the profundity of night, brilliant in winter and dusky in summer; the moon swam over the old hills, swollen and hazed with lavender and yellow; the great herald of night changing her blazoned shield, with its battle scars showing so dimly, from or to argent as it was carried into the higher solitudes of heaven.
In tones of silver it fluted, bubbling and rippling, a spring of song-water in whose brimming purity untarnished light was held in thrall.
One great faerie of cobweb was the sky, glittering with the dew of stars, and bearing a halved moon like the wing of a gold moth ravished and torn.
In the early spring the leaf-littered floor of the woods was one lambent flame of flower when the blue bells pealed their chimes of fragrance to call the dusky bees from nettle and apple blossom
Moving quietly over the grass, though unable to prevent the soft sighing of the dew-weighted stems under his feet, Mr Norman crept away. The moon had swung clear of the earth, and was moving into deeper heaven, leaving its tarnish about the pale summer vapour.
He had a dread of having his ankles kicked, and his three stone six pounds of bone, skin, hair, and boots made no impression on his weightier adversary and little upon the mud when he missed his objective altogether. Just as Mr. Maddison reached the climax of boredom and each individual member of the teams was thinking that his old superb form had returned, a long blast on the whistle announced that the match was over, and that 2a had won with thirty-five goals to twenty.The story is simplistic, barely even necessary, and it clearly has an element of life-writing, As such, it goes without saying that the four books should probably be read in their entirety for the full life story to be appreciated. But this was beautifully written, with so many magnificent phrases and sentences, presented with inventive and fluid expression, with an obvious love of nature and season, of insect and bird, until it was genuinely mesmerising to read. There is a conservatism at the heart of it, in his love of the past, in his love of nature, a romanticism in his high calibre prose broken up by dialogue and humour, by the memory of yesterday. Not always gripping, and certainly of its time, but with some of the most sincerely beautiful language I've come across. Reading this was like releasing a great sigh of nostalgia and melancholy.