fiddle I takeno note of
it being ofa frivolous characterand lacking inthe qualities oftrue poetry Icollected fourpence bythe recital ofI remember Iremember I knewit was fourpencebecause they toldme that ifI kept ituntil I gottwopence more Ishould have sixpencewhich argument albeitundeniable moved menot and themoney was squandered
to the bestof my recollection
on the verynext morning althoughupon what memoryis a blank That isjust the waywith Memory nothingthat she bringsto us iscomplete She isa willful childall her toysare broken Iremember tumbling intoa huge dustholewhen a verysmall boy butI have notthe faintest recollectionof ever getting
out again andif memory were
all we hadto trust toI should becompelled to believeI was therestill Atanother timesome yearslaterI was assistingat an exceedinglyinteresting love scenebut the onlything about itI can callto mind distinctlyis that atthe most criticalmoment somebody suddenlyopened the doorand said Emilyyoure wanted in
a sepulchral tonethat gave one
the idea thepolice had comefor her Allthe tender wordsshe said tome and allthe beautiful thingsI said toher are utterlyforgotten Lifealtogether is buta crumbling ruinwhen we turnto look behinda shattered columnhere where amassive portal stoodthe broken shaftof a windowto mark my
ladys bower anda moldering heap
of blackened stoneswhere the glowingflames once leapedand over allthe tinted lichenand the ivyclinging greenFor everything loomspleasant through thesoftening haze oftime Even thesadness that ispast seems sweetOur boyish dayslook very merryto us nowall nutting hoopand gingerbread Thesnubbings and toothachesand the Latin
verbs are allforgottenthe Latin verbs
especially And wefancy we werevery happy whenwe were hobbledehoysand loved andwe wish thatwe could loveagain We neverthink of theheartaches or thesleepless nights orthe hot drynessof our throatswhen she saidshe could neverbe anything tous but asisteras if anyman wanted moresisters Yes it
is the brightnessnot the darkness
that we seewhen we lookback The sunshinecasts no shadowson the pastThe road thatwe have traversedstretches very fairbehind us Wesee not thesharp stones Wedwell but onthe roses bythe wayside andthe strong briersthat stung usare to ourdistant eyes butgentle tendrils wavingin the wind