How far one drifts in thought away from the sweet scene which grows
sweeter every hour. The heat of the day is over now; the breeze
curls on the stream, the shadow of the tower falls far across the
water. My companion rises and smiles, thinking me lost in indolent
content; he hardly guesses how far I have been voyaging
"On strange seas of thought alone."
Does he guess that as I look back over my life, pain has so far
preponderated over happiness that I would not, if I could, live it
again, and that I would not in truth, if I could choose, have lived
it at all? And yet, even so, I recognise that I am glad not to have
the choice, for it would be made in an indolent and timid spirit,
and I do indeed believe that the end is not yet, and that the hour
will assuredly come when I shall rejoice to have lived, and see the
meaning even of my fears.
And then we retrace our way, and like the Lady of Shalott step down
into the boat, to glide along the darkling water-way in the
westering light. Why cannot I speak to my friend of such dark
things as these? It would be better perhaps if I could, and yet no
hand can help us to bear our own burden.
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