Excerpt from Mearing Stones: Leaves From My Note-Book on Tramp in Donegal The general light and darkstars, the earth smells, the bat that came out of the shadow of a fuchsia-bush and uttered across a white streak in the sky beyond. And I have tried Wordsworth's sonnet beginning, The world is too much with us, by a criterion no less than that of the Atlantic itself, tumbling in foam on the foreshore of Maghery when daylight was deepening into twilight,...