It May Be True (Complete)
Nonfiction, Religion & Spirituality, New Age, History, Fiction & Literature
| Author: | Mrs. Henry Wood | ISBN: | 9781465549457 |
| Publisher: | Library of Alexandria | Publication: | March 8, 2015 |
| Imprint: | Language: | English |
| Author: | Mrs. Henry Wood |
| ISBN: | 9781465549457 |
| Publisher: | Library of Alexandria |
| Publication: | March 8, 2015 |
| Imprint: | |
| Language: | English |
ASHLEIGH. Had'st thou lived in days of old, O, what wonders had been told Of thy lively countenance, And thy humid eyes that dance In the midst of their own brightness, In the very fane of lightness; Over which thine eyebrows, leaning, Picture out each lovely meaning; In a dainty bend they lie Like the streaks across the sky, Or the feathers from a crow, Fallen on a bed of snow. Keats. The village of Ashleigh is situated in one of the most lovely and romantic of the English counties; where mountains, valleys, woods and forest trees appear to vie with each other in stately magnificence. The village is literally embosomed amongst the trees. Lofty elms, majestic oaks, and wide-spreading beech trees grow in and around it. On one side, as far as the eye can reach, are mountains covered with verdure, with all their varied and lovely tints of green. On the other side the view is partially obstructed by a mass of forest trees growing in clumps, or forming an arch overhead, through which nevertheless may be gained a peep of the distant sea, with its blue waves, and sometimes the white sails of a ship; or, on a clear day, even the small fishermen's boats can be distinguished dotted here and there like small pearls. Ashleigh has its country inn and ivy-mantled church, with the small house dignified as the Parsonage, close by. Other houses are sprinkled here and there down the green lanes, or along the road, shaded by its lofty elms, at the end of which, on a small eminence, stands the Manor or "Big House," as the villagers call it
ASHLEIGH. Had'st thou lived in days of old, O, what wonders had been told Of thy lively countenance, And thy humid eyes that dance In the midst of their own brightness, In the very fane of lightness; Over which thine eyebrows, leaning, Picture out each lovely meaning; In a dainty bend they lie Like the streaks across the sky, Or the feathers from a crow, Fallen on a bed of snow. Keats. The village of Ashleigh is situated in one of the most lovely and romantic of the English counties; where mountains, valleys, woods and forest trees appear to vie with each other in stately magnificence. The village is literally embosomed amongst the trees. Lofty elms, majestic oaks, and wide-spreading beech trees grow in and around it. On one side, as far as the eye can reach, are mountains covered with verdure, with all their varied and lovely tints of green. On the other side the view is partially obstructed by a mass of forest trees growing in clumps, or forming an arch overhead, through which nevertheless may be gained a peep of the distant sea, with its blue waves, and sometimes the white sails of a ship; or, on a clear day, even the small fishermen's boats can be distinguished dotted here and there like small pearls. Ashleigh has its country inn and ivy-mantled church, with the small house dignified as the Parsonage, close by. Other houses are sprinkled here and there down the green lanes, or along the road, shaded by its lofty elms, at the end of which, on a small eminence, stands the Manor or "Big House," as the villagers call it
