I was looking at the Atlantic's list of its writers' and editors' favorite books read in 2013, and one of them put Bring Up the Bodies. And to point out why, the reviewer opened her blurb with this, a quotation taken more or less at random from the book and put into verse form:
These days are perfect.
The clear untroubled light picks out
Each berry shimmering in a hedge.
Each leaf of tree,
The sun behind it,
Hangs like a golden pear.
Riding westward in high summer,
We have dipped in sylvan chases
And crested the downs,
Emerging into that high country where,
Even across two counties,
You can sense the shifting presence of the sea.
In this part of England
Our forefathers the giants
Left their earthworks,
Their barrows and standing stones.
We still have, every Englishman and woman,
Some drops of giant blood in our veins.
These days are perfect.
The clear untroubled light picks out
Each berry shimmering in a hedge.
Each leaf of tree,
The sun behind it,
Hangs like a golden pear.
Riding westward in high summer,
We have dipped in sylvan chases
And crested the downs,
Emerging into that high country where,
Even across two counties,
You can sense the shifting presence of the sea.
In this part of England
Our forefathers the giants
Left their earthworks,
Their barrows and standing stones.
We still have, every Englishman and woman,
Some drops of giant blood in our veins.
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