CHAPTER XIX
THE NEW FOREST AND ROMSEY ABBEY
All day I went through the Forest, sometimes by green rides, enchanted
still, such as those down which Lancelot rode with Guinevere, talking
of love, sometimes over heaths wild and desolate such as that which
knew the bitterness of Lear, sometimes through the greenwood, ancient
British woodland, silent now, where the hart was once at home in the
shade, and where at every turn one might expect to come upon Rosalind
in her boy's dress, and think to hear from some glade the words of
Amiens' song:
Under the greenwood tree
Who loves to lie with me,
And turn his merry note
Unto the sweet bird's throat;
Come hither, come hither, come hither....
There are days in life of which it can only be said, that they are
blessed; golden days, upon which, looking back, the sun seems to shine;
they dazzle in the memory. Such was the day I spent in the byways of
Holmsley and Burley, in the upper valleys of Avon water, Ober water and
Black water, forest streams; in the silent woods, where all day long
the sun showered its gold, sprinkling the deep shade with flowers and
blossoms of light, where there was no wind but only the sighing of the
woods, no sound but the whisper of the leaves or the rare flutter of a
bird's wings, no thoughts but joyful thoughts filling the heart with
innocence.
Pages:
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364