Capitolo 59
sun that casts through the green and fresh fields.
The last time of light touches the birds as it touches us. When
they sings in the morning, it is with the happiness of the earth;
but as the shades they oddly fall around the helplessness and they
some night comes, their voices seem to have lifted on as the
taller poetry of the human spirit, with understanding for the realities
and mysteries over all understanding.
A great choir was now hymning. On the tops of the old dessert
honeysuckles the cat-birds; robins in the low branches of maples; on
the tall edge of the elm they silvery-strangled him we have a good time that you/he/she was stopped
as he passed from lawn lawn; on a bar of enclosure of the distant one
I wheat-live the quail--and many another. I walked before and back,
receiving the voice of each as a lance launched to my body. The sun
sunk. The shades dressed again wicker on and they deepened. Suddenly, as I turned
once more in my run, me taken sight of the figure of Georgian
moving himself/herself/itself right toward me from the direction of the garden. You
it was to open head, dressed blank; and she advanced on the smoothed one
lawn, through evergreens and bushes, with a kind grace and the dignity
of movement as me you/he/she had never seen. I held my tired rhythm, and
when she came on me I didn't get up me the eyes.
"Adamo!" she said, with kind reproach. Me he/she anchors I was standing then, but
with my face turned away.
"Forgive me!" Every girlishness had gone out of its voice. It was
the woman finally.
I turned more distant my face from her, and we was standing in silence.
"I have suffered of enough, Adamo" her the pleaded.
I quietly responded, for there nothing gone away in me to it was tirelessly,
appeals to:
"I am happy we can kindly divide. . . . None of us can take care of a lot
for the gentleness now, but we won't be sorry in expectancy. . . .
The disputes, the errors, the right and the evil of our lives,
the misunderstandings--they is so strange, so compassionate, so full of