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border of her train； and dodged for a chance of holding her bracelet
when she played。 You composed prose in honour of her and called the
composition （for reasons unknown to yourself） a 〃catalogue。〃 She
took singularly little notice of you。
Wordsworth cannot say too much of your passion for nature。 The
light of summer morning before sunrise was to you a spiritual
splendour for which you wanted no name。 The Mediterranean under the
first perceptible touch of the moon； the calm southern sea in the
full blossom of summer； the early spring everywhere； in the showery
streets； in the fields； or at sea； left old childish memories with
you which you try to evoke now when you see them again。 But the
cloudy dusk behind poplars on the plains of France； the flying
landscape from the train； willows； and the last of the light； were
more mournful to you then than you care to remember now。 So were
the black crosses on the graves of the French village； so were
cypresses； though greatly beloved。
If you were happy enough to be an internationally educated child；
you had much at heart the heart of every country you knew。 You
disliked the English accent of your compatriots abroad with a scorn
to which； needless to say； you are not tempted now。 You had shocks
of delight from Swiss woods full of lilies of the valley； and from
English fields full of cowslips。 You had disquieting dreams of
landscape and sun； and of many of these you cannot now tell which
were visions of travel and which visions of slumber。 Your strong
sense of place made you love some places too keenly for peace。
End