Arthur Machen

“ An old farm house, built of grey, silvering stones; a long barn wavering and dipping down to a black pool, pine trees overhanging the roof. It was all dim, as if it had been seen reflected in water. I went a little nearer, and I found that I was lifted free of the maze of hills. I fronted the mountain, looking across a deep, broad valley, and all the year the mountain winds must blow upon the porch; they look from their deep windows and see the fleeting of the clouds and the sun on that vast green hill side. ”

“ I used to get up early and go out, and leave the little modern village behind me, hidden in the hot haze. And then I would stand in the misty meadows and watch the green turf shimmer and lighten, as the grey halo rolled away. ”

“ A broad level of misty meadows, divided by low banks, between the hills and the river. They say the Roman world is lost beneath the turf, that a whole city sleeps there, gold and marble and amber all buried for ever. ”