noon
There is so little these may do , but the elements are up and doing ; and they are in some sort theirs . And who does not like to watch the stately white cloud lying becalmed over the woods , and waiting in a rapture of rest for a wind to come and float it on ? Yet we might not have cared to see the cloud take her rest , but for the sweetness of rest to ourselves . The plough turned over on one side under a hedge , while the ploughman rests at noon , might hint to us what is the key-note of that chord which makes us think the rest of the cloud so fair . If the splendour of some intense passion had never suddenly glorified the spread-out ether of time in which our spirits float , should we feel such a strange yearning on looking at a sunset , with its tender preliminary flush , and then the rapid suffusions of scarlet and growth of gold ? If it is not ourselves that we look at then , it is at one of the tokens and emblems which claim a likeness with us , a link to hold us up to the clear space that washes itself so suddenly in an elixir costly as the golden chances of youth , and the crimson rose of love . With what a sigh , even youth itself will mark that outpouring of coloured glory !