With the sunset sharpness was lost, and like mist rising,
quiet rose, quiet spread, the wind settled; loosely the world shook itself down
to sleep, darkly here without a light to it, save what came green suffused
through leaves, or pale on the white flowers by the window.
[Lily Briscoe had her bag carried up to the house late one
evening in September. "Mr. Carmichael came by the same train.]
To the Lighthouse (145)
No comments:
Post a Comment