She shows herself
to you. So near she draws you, that the blood seems to flow from her to
you, through a still uncut cord: you feel the throb of her life.
When that day comes, that you sit down broken, without one human creature
to whom you cling, with your loves the dead and the living-dead; when the
very thirst for knowledge through long-continued thwarting has grown dull;
when in the present there is no craving, and in the future no hope, then,
oh, with a beneficent tenderness, Nature infolds you.
Then the large white snow-flakes as they flutter down, softly, one by one,
whisper soothingly, "Rest, poor heart, rest!" It is as though our mother
smoothed our hair, and we are comforted.
And yellow-legged bees as they hum make a dreamy lyric; and the light on
the brown stone wall is a great work of art; and the glitter through the
leaves makes the pulses beat.
Well to die then; for, if you live, so surely as the years come, so surely
as the spring succeeds the winter, so surely will passions arise. They
will creep back, one by one, into the bosom that has cast them forth, and
fasten there again, and peace will go. Desire, ambition, and the fierce
agonizing flood of love for the living they will spring again. Then Nature
will draw down her veil; with all your longing you shall not be able to
raise one corner; you cannot bring back those peaceful days.
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