The trunks of the trees succeed each other in endless ranks, like
columns that support the most beautiful roof of pink and white. Here the
bloom is rosy, there white prevails: the young green is hidden under the
petals that are far more numerous than leaves, or even than leaves will
be. Though the path really is in shadow as the branches shut out the
sun, yet it seems brighter here than in the open, as if the place were
illuminated by a million tiny lamps shedding the softest lustre. The
light is reflected and apparently increased by the countless flowers
overhead.
The forest of bloom extends acre after acre, and only ceases where
hedges divide, to commence again beyond the boundary. A wicket gate, all
green with a film of vegetation over the decaying wood, opens under the
very eaves of a cottage, and the path goes by the door--across a narrow
meadow where deep and broad trenches, green now, show where ancient
stews or fishponds existed, and then through a farmyard into a lane.
Tall poplars rise on either hand, but there seem to be no houses; they
stand, in fact, a field's breadth back from the lane, and are approached
by footpaths that every few yards necessitate a stile in the hedge.
When a low thatched farmhouse does abut upon the way, the blank white
wall of the rear part faces the road, and the front door opens on
precisely the other side.
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