6th.--I knew it wouldn't last; it's already passing away. But I have
spent a delightful day; I have been strolling all over the place.
Everything reminds me of something else, and yet of itself at the same
time; my imagination makes a great circuit and comes back to the starting-
point. There is that well-remembered odour of spring in the air, and the
flowers, as they used to be, are gathered into great sheaves and stacks,
all along the rugged base of the Strozzi Palace. I wandered for an hour
in the Boboli Gardens; we went there several times together. I remember
all those days individually; they seem to me as yesterday. I found the
corner where she always chose to sit--the bench of sun-warmed marble, in
front of the screen of ilex, with that exuberant statue of Pomona just
beside it. The place is exactly the same, except that poor Pomona has
lost one of her tapering fingers. I sat there for half an hour, and it
was strange how near to me she seemed. The place was perfectly
empty--that is, it was filled with _her_. I closed my eyes and listened;
I could almost hear the rustle of her dress on the gravel. Why do we
make such an ado about death? What is it, after all, but a sort of
refinement of life? She died ten years ago, and yet, as I sat there in
the sunny stillness, she was a palpable, audible presence.
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