This is an autumn evening, wet and wild.

There is only one cloud in the sky; but it curtains it from pole to pole.

The wind cannot rest; it hurries sobbing over hills of sullen outline, colourless with twilight and mist.

Rain has beat all day on that church tower" (Haworth): "it rises dark from the stony enclosure of its graveyard: the nettles, the long grass, and the tombs all drip with wet.

This evening reminds me too forcibly of another evening some years ago: a howling, rainy autumn evening too--when certain who had that day performed a pilgrimage to a grave new made in a heretic cemetery, sat near a wood fire on the hearth of a foreign dwelling.