Ellen Buckingham Mathews,
Comin' Thro' the Rye
(1898)
“ There is not the ghostliest breath of air to ruffle the clear splendour of the boughs; nature is pulseless, voiceless, without heart, a great glittering shell that estranges and chills me. I cross the field of rye, that was so bare and brown a week ago, and reach home, tired in body, but with my misery as keen and vigorous as when I walked out with it in the morning hours. In the drawing-room I find mother, and standing before her with a perturbed countenance is Simpkins. ”
