The grass is tall and dark, the plants are strong and hardy;
the trunks of the ivy are twisted, knotted, and rough, and lift up the
walls as with levers or hold them in the network of their branches. In
one spot, a tree has grown through the wall horizontally, and, suspended
in the air, has let its branches radiate around it. The moats, the steep
slope of which is broken by the earth which has detached itself from the
embankments and the stones which have fallen from the battlements, have
a wide, deep curve, like hatred and pride; and the portal, with its
strong, slightly arched ogive, and its two bays that raise the
drawbridge, looks like a great helmet with holes in its visor.
When one enters, he is surprised and astonished at the wonderful mixture
of ruins and trees, the ruins accentuating the freshness of the trees,
while the latter in turn, render more poignant the melancholy of the
ruins. Here, indeed, is the beautiful, eternal, and brilliant laughter
of nature over the skeleton of things; here is the insolence of her
wealth and the deep grace of her encroachments, and the melodious
invasions of her silence. A grave and pensive enthusiasm fills one's
soul; one feels that the sap flows in the trees and that the grass grows
with the same strength and the same rhythm, as the stones crumble and
the walls cave in.
Pages:
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26