noon
On a spur of the Sussex Downs , inland from Nettle-Cold , there stands a beech-grove . The traveller who enters it out of the heat and brightness , takes off the shoes of his spirit before its , sanctity ; and , reaching the centre , across the clean beech-mat , he sits refreshing his brow with air , and silence . For the flowers of sunlight on the ground under those branches are pale and rare , no insects hum , the birds are almost mute . And close to the border trees are the quiet , milk-white sheep , in congregation , escaping from noon heat . Here , above fields and dwellings , above the ceaseless network of men 's doings , and the vapour of their talk , the traveller feels solemnity . All seems conveying divinity -- the great white clouds moving their wings above him , the faint longing murmur of the boughs , and in far distance , the sea ... . And for a space his restlessness and fear know the peace of God .