The message comes floating with the errant breeze, with the rustle and
glimmer abroad in the April sky. It sings of the first ache of youth in the
world, when the first flower broke from the bud, and love went forth
seeking that which it knew not, leaving all it had known.
And one afternoon, when among the _amlak_ trees the shadow grew grave and
sweet with the furtive caress of light, the deer set off to run like a
meteor in love with death.
It grew dark, and lamps were lighted in the house; the stars came out and
night was upon the fields, but the deer never came back.
My dog ran up to me whining, questioning me with his piteous eyes which
seemed to say, "I do not understand!"
But who does ever understand?
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Our Lane is tortuous, as if, ages ago, she started in quest of her goal,
vacillated right and left, and remained bewildered for ever.
Above in the air, between her buildings, hangs like a ribbon a strip torn
out of space: she calls it her sister of the blue town.
She sees the sun only for a few moments at mid-day, and asks herself in
wise doubt, "Is it real?"
In June rain sometimes shades her band of daylight as with pencil
hatchings.
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