The Very Rich Hours

Amant in bed, dreaming. There are no borders to this miniature. B moves Bateau across the night. It is all the loops can do to let their gilding bulge with what is there. One light on the wide sea. The bones of stars. No other country is so curiously watered. From the estuaries to the very sources of its inwardtending channels, it rises in fogs which are themselves arterial. For its earth has more than once been seen quite early in the morning to lighten and give way. At the gate to the garden, Fair Welcome. She raises her hand. Salutare: to greet and to save. Leisures of tendrils are on all sides, winding with the snails through white acanthus and discarded badges of pilgrims. You may assign to the nineteen portholes in these borders whatever you like. The sand is of such fineness and the flow so singly clear that nothing seems to pass through, golden, and with all its lights. Water makes very much the best portable horizon. While its reflections are fainter than those in the speculum, their angles may be measured accurately and the differences from a true meridian reckoned by the clock. These sightings should be taken at least three hours before and after noon. Two liveried falconers, the jesses and bells, the gloves. Amant with the dove’s neck-ring, The lady in her chamber. Winter trees, rooks in the white branches, hounds, the dying boar. On the top of a mountain a lion waving his tail. The general course of the river straightens, and is moderately timbered. Scattered islands covered w/willow. Across from a single, long bluff of open rock, the plain to the S. is higher, extending quite to the mountains which contain still great quantities of snow. A small creek falls in from this side. Pursued its bottom for perhaps 4 m. Cottonwood. Much evidence of beaver. Now all of this is to be understood in a spiritual manner. Let us cover the nakedness of our fathers with the cloak of a favorable interpretation. Under a dry stalk of burdock, iron-brown latches and fittings, a few nails. The bulls are eating apples. Thick grasses sweat through the whole pasture. Dame Reason with her chaplet of apothegms. He should put his heart in a single place only. The truest things about bodies are their shadows. Pleas put me back in the water I am Paddle-to-the-Sea She has done this before. She wades into the current to the one point where the current lounges at her hips. She stands there. With all the time in the world, steadily, she kneels steadily deeper, to her shoulders, smiling, her hair cupped in both hands behind her neck. The Familiar gives Its first lesson to the lover. A new order is one that is renewed hourly. A drove of geese in its tall, while file plucks home through the wet fallow. Hedges darken between the fields. Along the wolds for miles in level tracts, haze from the lime-kilns. All quarters of the sky are wintry, huge. We could no longer be sure that we had passed the Préveranges. Freshets from the little stream poured onto the lane, filling ruts and drainages. In the dusk, and with our shoes soaked, we set off through a meadow, and another, and found soon an abandoned cottage of some old forester. We determined that I should stay and secure it as an outpost. Meaulnes went on alone. At an earlier hour, the ground at the wood’s edge illumines to some thousand footcandles, fades under the canopies, the layers of trees, of shrubs and herbs, under the dark itself, brighter by as many eyes as are buried there. Tied to a washboard, submerged, the panes of glass chime like clean ice. they are dangers harebells and just where the fall goes over they lean into the spray so far and bob so on their stems they thrill and a hammer rings carillon down the cows spine feel it there it goes again Death hath its seat close to the entrance of delight. —Gudique Sifting over porches and limp hibiscus, rust from the canvas awnings, its red spores dull in a moon that shows everything, houses and driveways, fishponds, all of them hiding from their insides, forgetting, looking around. there is no way to lie down and not lie in the same way that someone has had to lie thinking of how far it is to the places no one goes or to any place this far from the beds where the dying cry into the night this far Deacons and presbyters. The Laying On of Hands. In a vial, juice from the wild cucumber, powdered glass, the divine Endura.