Pascarel : only a story . h, I think, like thesmile of Italy as she awakes when the winter has 86 PASCABEL. dozed itself away in the odours of its oakwoodfires. The whole land seems to laugh. The springtide of the north is green and beau-tiful, but it has nothing of the radiance, the dream-fulness, the ecstasy of spring in the southerncountries. The springtide of the north is palewith the gentle colourless sweetness of its world ofprimroses ; the springtide of Italy is rainbow-hued,like the profusion of anemones that laugh with itin every hue of glory under every ancient wall andbeside every h
Pascarel : only a story . h, I think, like thesmile of Italy as she awakes when the winter has 86 PASCABEL. dozed itself away in the odours of its oakwoodfires. The whole land seems to laugh. The springtide of the north is green and beau-tiful, but it has nothing of the radiance, the dream-fulness, the ecstasy of spring in the southerncountries. The springtide of the north is palewith the gentle colourless sweetness of its world ofprimroses ; the springtide of Italy is rainbow-hued,like the profusion of anemones that laugh with itin every hue of glory under every ancient wall andbeside every hill-fed stream. Spring in the north is a child that wakes fromdreams of death; spring in the south is a child thatwakes from dreams of love. One is rescued andwelcomed from the grave; but the other comessmiling on a sunbeam from heaven. All the Quaresima we abode in Florence ; and hemade glad and perfect to me each lenten hour as itglided by ; and when the sun set, it left me alwaystired, happy, thoughtful, full of CHAPTER VI. THE OLD STAR TOWER.
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