John Bull's other Island by George Bernard Shaw

Rosscullen. Westward a hillside of granite rock and heather / slopes upward across the prospect from south to north, a huge / stone stands on it in a naturally impossible place, as if it had / been tossed up there by a giant. Over the brow, in the desolate / valley beyond, is a round tower. A lonely white high road / trending away westward past the tower loses itself at the foot of / the far mountains. It is evening; and there are great breadths of / silken green in the Irish sky. The sun is setting.

A man with the face of a young saint, yet with white hair and / perhaps 50 years on his back, is standing near the stone in a / trance of intense melancholy, looking over the hills as if by / mere intensity of gaze he could pierce the glories of the sunset / and see into the streets of heaven. He is dressed in black, and / is rather more clerical in appearance than most English curates / are nowadays; but he does not wear the collar and waistcoat of a / parish priest. He is roused from his trance by the chirp of an / insect from a tuft of grass in a crevice of the stone. His face / relaxes: he turns quietly, and gravely takes off his hat to the / tuft, addressing the insect in a brogue which is the jocular / assumption of a gentleman and not the natural speech of a / peasant.