Every thing is as wet as though there had been a shower, but there has been none.
Talk of the earth moving round the sun--he himself the while stupidly stock-still--let _them_ believe it who like; is not he now placidly sailing through the turquoise sea?
Below, the earth is unfolding all her freshened meadows, bravely pied with rainbow flowers.

There is a very small soft wind, that comes in honeyed puffs and little sighs, that wags the lilac-heads, and the long droop of the laburnum-blooms.

The grass is so wet--so wet--as we swish through it, every blade a separate green sparkle.

The young daisies give our feet little friendly knocks as we pass.
All round the old flowering thorn there is a small carpet, milk-white and rose-red, of strewn petals.

Every flower that has a cup, is holding it brimful of cool dew.