Spring is a lean old plough horse with its ribs showing--it's a pile of
refuse in a field, parched by the sun and the rain to an ominous
cleanliness._
_In a few hours you'll wake up, my darling--and you'll be miserable, and
disgusted with life. You'll be in Delaware or Carolina or somewhere and
so unimportant. I don't believe there's any one alive who can
contemplate themselves as an impermanent institution, as a luxury or an
unnecessary evil. Very few of the people who accentuate the futility of
life remark the futility of themselves. Perhaps they think that in
proclaiming the evil of living they somehow salvage their own worth from
the ruin--but they don't, even you and I...._
_ ... Still I can see you. There's blue haze about the trees where
you'll be passing, too beautiful to be predominant. No, the fallow
squares of earth will be most frequent--they'll be along beside the
track like dirty coarse brown sheets drying in the sun, alive,
mechanical, abominable. Nature, slovenly old hag, has been sleeping in
them with every old farmer or negro or immigrant who happened to
covet her...._
_So you see that now you're gone I've written a letter all full of
contempt and despair.
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