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Updated: June 9, 2025
Now comes the bird of dusty hue, The loud cuckoo, the summer lover; Broad-branching trees are thick with leaves; The bitter evil time is over. Swift horses gather nigh, Where half dry the river goes; Tufted heather crowns the height; Weak and white the bog-down blows.
The sound of summer is everywhere in the passing breeze, in the hedge, in the broad-branching trees, in the grass as it swings; all the myriad particles that together make the summer are in motion.
In a "make believe" assembly of choice spirits everybody says just the thing you want her to say and so gives you the chance to say just what YOU want to say. Attended by this invisible company, Anne traversed the woods and arrived at the fir lane just as broad, feathery flakes began to flutter down softly. At the first bend she came upon Miss Lavendar, standing under a big, broad-branching fir.
Up through the grand avenue of stately oaks and broad-branching elms, whose boughs, rich with the budding green, swayed in the light wind with a soft rustling sound as of sweeping silks on velvet, the unostentatious vehicle jogged slowly, it was a steady ascent all the way, and the driver was duly considerate of his animal's capabilities.
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