A wind had blown and all had vanished.
The second green of the year shot lively sparkles off the meadows, from a fringe of coloured glovelets to a warm silver lake of dews.

The firwood was already breathing rich and sweet in the sun.

The half-moon fell rayless and paler than the fan of fleeces pushed up Westward, high overhead, themselves dispersing on the blue in downy feathers, like the mottled grey of an eagle's breast: the smaller of them bluish like traces of the beaked wood-pigeon.
She looked above, then below on the slim and straightgrown flocks of naked purple crocuses in bud and blow abounding over the meadow that rolled to the level of the house, and two of these she gathered..