fingery

Updated: July 16, 2025

For many days there has not been a wind in the trees, and the landscape reminds me of a somnambulist the same silence, the same mystery, the same awe. The thick foliage of the ash never stirs; even the fingery leaves hanging out from the topmost twigs are still. The hawthorns growing out of a tumbled wall are turning yellow and brown, the hollyhocks are over, the chrysanthemums are beginning.

George (George Augustus) Moore - Memoirs of My Dead Life