. Shakespeare's England . n, as it did on that delicioussummer afternoon which is for ever mem-orable in my life, the golden glory of thewestering sun burns on the gray spire ofStratford church, and on the ancientgraveyard below, — wherein the mossy stones lean thisway and that, in sweet and orderly confusion, — andon the peaceful avenue of limes, and on the burnishedwater of silver Avon. The tall, pointed, many-colouredwindows of the church glint in the evening light. Acool and fragrant wind is stirring the branches and thegrass. The small birds, calling to their mates or sport-ing in the wan
. Shakespeare's England . n, as it did on that delicioussummer afternoon which is for ever mem-orable in my life, the golden glory of thewestering sun burns on the gray spire ofStratford church, and on the ancientgraveyard below, — wherein the mossy stones lean thisway and that, in sweet and orderly confusion, — andon the peaceful avenue of limes, and on the burnishedwater of silver Avon. The tall, pointed, many-colouredwindows of the church glint in the evening light. Acool and fragrant wind is stirring the branches and thegrass. The small birds, calling to their mates or sport-ing in the wanton pleasure of their airy life, are circlingover the church roof or hiding in little crevices of itswalls. On the vacant meadows across the river stretchaway the long and level shadows of the pompous and there, upon the rivers brink, are pairs ofwhat seem lovers, strolling by the reedy marge, or sit-ting upon the low tombs, in the Sabbath quiet. As thesun sinks and the dusk deepens, two figures of infirm 78. Holy Trinity Church. 80 SHAKESPEARES ENGLAND chap. old women, clad in black, pass with slow and feeblesteps through the avenue of limes, and vanish aroundan angle of the church — that now stands all in shadow :and no sound is heard but the faint rustling of theleaves. Once again, as on that sacred night, the streets ofStratford are deserted and silent under the star-lit sky,and I am standing, in the dim darkness, at the door ofthe cottage in which Shakespeare was born. It isempty, dark, and still; and in all the neighbourhoodthere is no stir nor sign of life; but the quaint case-ments and gables of this haunted house, its antiqueporch, and the great timbers that cross its front areluminous as with a light of their own, so that I seethem with perfect vision. I stand there a long time,and I know that I am to remember these sights forever, as I see them now. After a while, with lingeringreluctance, I turn away from this marvellous spot, and,presently passing t
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Keywords: ., bookcentury1800, bookdecade1890, bookidshakespeares, bookyear1895
