Meanwhile, the primroses are dawning on the ground, their light is
growing stronger, spreading over the banks and under the bushes. Between
the olive roots the violets are out, large, white, grave violets, and
less serious blue ones. And looking down the bill, among the grey smoke
of olive leaves, pink puffs of smoke are rising up. It is the almond and
the apricot trees, it is the Spring.
Soon the primroses are strong on the ground. There is a bank of small,
frail crocuses shooting the lavender into this spring. And then the
tussocks and tussocks of primroses are fully out, there is full morning
everywhere on the banks and roadsides and stream-sides, and around the
olive roots, a morning of primroses underfoot, with an invisible
threading of many violets, and then the lovely blue clusters of
hepatica, really like pieces of blue sky showing through a clarity of
primrose. The few birds are piping thinly and shyly, the streams sing
again, there is a strange flowering shrub full of incense, overturned
flowers of crimson and gold, like Bohemian glass. Between the olive
roots new grass is coming, day is leaping all clear and coloured from
the earth, it is full Spring, full first rapture.
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