The
beady eye, the puffed feathers grow sick and dulled with hunger.
Why cannot I rest a little in the beauty all about me? Take it home
to my shivering soul? Nay, I will not complain, even to myself.
I came back at sundown, through the silent garden, all shrouded and
muffled with snow. The snow lay on the house, outlining the
cornices, cresting the roof-tiles, crusted sharply on the cupola,
whitening the tall chimney-stacks. The comfortable smoke went up
into the still air, and the firelight darted in the rooms. What a
sense of beautiful permanence, sweet hopefulness, fireside warmth
it all gave; and it is real as well. No life that I could have
devised is so rich in love and tranquillity as mine; everything to
give me content, except the contented mind. Why cannot I enter,
seat myself in the warm firelight, open a book, and let the old
beautiful thoughts flow into my mind, till the voices of wife and
children return to gladden me, and I listen to all that they have
seen and done? Why should I rather sit, like a disconsolate child
among its bricks, feebly and sadly planning new combinations and
fantastic designs? I have done as much and more than most of my
contemporaries; what is this insensate hunger of the spirit that
urges me to work that I cannot do, for rewards that I do not want?
Why cannot I be content to dream and drowse a little?
"Rest, then, and rest
And think of the best,
'Twixt summer and spring,
When no birds sing.
Pages:
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115