In Search of Lost Time [volumes 1 to 7]

by Marcel Proust

When I had finished sleeping, tempted by the sunlit sky — but discouraged by the chill — of those last autumn mornings, so luminous and so cold, in which winter begins, to get up and look at the trees on which the leaves were indicated now only by a few strokes, golden or rosy, which seemed to have been left in the air, on an invisible web, I raised my head from the pillow and stretched my neck, keeping my body still hidden beneath the bedclothes;