claude monet painting

The breeze was from the west: it came over the hills, sweet with
scents of heath and rush; the sky was of stainless blue; the stream
descending the ravine, swelled with past spring rains, poured along
plentiful and clear, catching golden gleams from the sun, and sapphire
tints from the firmament. As we advanced and left the track, we trod a
soft turf, mossy fine and emerald green, minutely enamelled with a
tiny white flower, and spangled with a star-like yellow blossom: the
hills, meantime, shut us quite in; for the glen, towards its head,
wound to their very core.
'Let us rest here,' said St. John, as we reached the first
stragglers of a battalion of rocks, guarding a sort of pass, beyond

which the beck rushed down a waterfall; and where, still a little
farther, the mountain shook off turf and flower, had only heath for
raiment and crag for gem- where it exaggerated the wild to the savage,
and exchanged the fresh for the frowning- where it guarded the forlorn
hope of solitude, and a last refuge for silence.
I took a seat: St. John stood near me. He looked up the pass and
down the hollow; his glance wandered away with the stream, and
returned to traverse the unclouded heaven which coloured it: he