These clouds must be monstrously thick, or dense. Even before the moon set, they transmitted very little of its light. Once it had gone, the sky became so dark that the bulky, jagged outlines of the trees could barely be discerned. For a while, the landscape was visited by a thin fog, which could not be seen except by a shaft of light which escaped a window, but the scent of which filled the cold air. A wind rose now and then to make the pines moan. A few crickets emitted soft chirps between long pauses. No more rain has fallen, but the hours were drenched in an atmosphere of melancholy. Naturally, I've relished it all. So rarely does a late spring night present such a gothic demeanor, that I have spent scarcely an hour indoors, preferring to shiver outside and absorb the exotic mood. I'm sure the cat, curled near the heater vent, thinks I'm crazy. She's probably right.
A pallid dawn now approaches, bringing me great hope of a dreary morning and dismal, wan day. Could I be any more delighted? Is this not the best spring weather ever?