Chapter 23 A splendid mid-summer, shown over England,

sky so pure, sun so radiant, as were then seen in long succession, seldom favor even

singly, our wave-girt land.

It was, as if a band of Italian days had come from the south, like a flock of glorious

passenger-birds, and lighted to rest them on the cliffs of Albion.

The hay was all got in.

The fields around Thornfield were green and shorn.

The roads white and baked.

The trees were in their dark prime.

Hedge and wood, full-leaved and deeply tinted, contrasted well with the sunny hue of the

cleared meadows between.

On mid-summer eve, Adele, weary with gathering wild strawberries and hay-lane half the day, had

gone to bed with the sun.

I watched her drop the sleep, and when I left her I sought the garden.

It was now the sweetest hour of the twenty-four.

Day its fervid fires had wasted, and dew fell cool on panting plain and scorched summit.

Where the sun had gone down in simple state, pure of the pomp of clouds, spread a solemn

purple, burning with the light of red jewel, and furnace flame at one point, on one hill

peak, an extending high and wide, soft and still softer, over half heaven.

The east had its own charm, or fine deep blue, and its own modest gem, the casino and solitary

star.

Soon it would boast the moon, but she was yet beneath the horizon.

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