It is a cool day in July, and the shaded sunlight slowly steals and
disappears over the landscape. There are none of those sudden
flashes which come when the clouds are more sharply defined and the
blue is more intense. I have wandered from the uplands down to the
river. The fields are cleared of the hay, and the bright green of
the newly mown grass increases the darkness of the massive foliage
of the bordering elms. The cows are feeding in the rich level
meadows and now and then come to the river to drink. It is overhung
with alders, and two or three stand on separate little islands held
together by roots. The winter floods biting into the banks have cut
miniature cliffs, and at their base grow the forget-me-not, the
willow-herb, and flowering rush. A brightly-plumaged bird, too
swift to be recognised--could it be a kingfisher?--darts along the
margin of the stream and disappears in its black shadows. The wind
blows gently from the west: it is just strong enough to show the
silver sides of the willow leaves. The sound of the weir, although
so soft, is able to exclude the clacking of the mill and all
intermittent, casual noises. For two hours it has filled my ears
and brought a deeper repose than that of mere silence. It is not
uniform, for the voices of innumerable descending threads of water
with varying impulses can be distinguished, but it is a unity.
Myriads of bubbles rise from the leaping foam at the bottom, float
away for a few yards and then break.

It is the very summit of the year, the brief poise of perfection.
In two or three weeks the days will be noticeably shorter, the
harvest will begin, and we shall be on our way downwards to autumn,
to dying leaves and to winter.