hour from two to three
My knowledge of Pan was of the vaguest , and yet more than once or twice did I utter that prayer wandering alone the playing field , or watching the evening mist roll down the Thames Valley and blot up the elm trees , thick and white , clinging to the day like a fleece . The third Iliad again I have never forgotten , nor the twenty-fourth ; nor the picture of the two gods , like vulture birds , watching the battle from the dead tree . Nor , again , do I ever fail to recapture the beat of the heart with which I apprehended some of Homer 's phrases : `` Sandy Pylos , '' Argos `` the pasture land of horses , '' or `` clear-seen '' Ithaca . These things happened upon by chance in the dusty class-room , in the close air of that terrible hour from two to three , were as the opening of shutters to the soul , revealing blue distances , dim fields , or the snowy peaks of mountains in the sun . One seemed to lift , one could forget . It lasted but an instant ; but time is of no account to the inner soul , of no more account than it is to God . I have never forgotten these moments of escape ; nor can I leave Homer without confessing that his books became my Bible .