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.