van vincent gogh night starry

van vincent gogh night starry
I was in my own room as usual- just myself, without obvious change:
nothing had smitten me, or scathed me, or maimed me. And yet where was
the Jane Eyre of yesterday?- where was her life?- where were her
prospects?
Jane Eyre, who had been an ardent, expectant woman- almost a bride,
was a cold, solitary girl again: her life was pale; her prospects were
desolate. A Christmas frost had come at midsummer; a white December
storm had whirled over June; ice glazed the ripe apples, drifts
crushed the blowing roses; on hayfield and cornfield lay a frozen
van vincent gogh night starry
shroud: lanes which last night blushed full of flowers, to-day were
pathless with untrodden snow; and the woods, which twelve hours
since waved leafy and fragrant as groves between the tropics, now
spread, waste, wild, and white as pine-forests in wintry Norway. My
hopes were all dead- struck with a subtle doom, such as, in one night,
fell on all the first-born in the land of Egypt. I looked on my
cherished wishes, yesterday so blooming and glowing; they lay stark,
chill, livid corpses that could never revive. I looked at my love:
van vincent gogh night starry