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137
The Solitary Summer
·
Elizabeth Von Arnim
23
In
the
evening,
when
everything
is
tired
and
quiet,
I
sit
with
Walt
Whitman
by
the
rose
beds
and
listen
to
what
that
lonely
and
beautiful
spirit
has
to
tell
me
of
night,
sleep,
death,
and
the
stars.
This
dusky,
silent
hour
is
his;
and
this
is
the
time
when
I
can
best
hear
the
beatings
of
that
most
tender
and
generous
heart.
Such
great
love,
such
rapture
of
jubilant
love
for
nature,
and
the
good
green
grass,
and
trees,
and
clouds,
and
sunlight;
such
aching
anguish
of
love
for
all
that
breathes
and
is
sick
and
sorry;
such
passionate
longing
to
help
and
mend
and
comfort
that
which
never
can
be
helped
and
mended
and
comforted;
such
eager
looking
to
death,
delicate
death,
as
the
one
complete
and
final
consolation--before
this
revelation
of
yearning,
universal
pity,
every-day
selfishness
stands
awe-struck
and
ashamed.
When
I
drive
in
the
forests,
Keats
goes
with
me;
and
if
I
extend
my
drive
to
the
Baltic
shores,
and
spend
the
afternoon
on
the
moss
beneath
the
pines
whose
pink
stems
form
the
framework
of
the
sea,
I
take
Spenser;
and
presently
the
blue
waves
are
the
ripples
of
the
Idle
Lake,
and
a
tiny
white
sail
in
the
distance
is
Phaedria's
shallow
ship,
bearing
Cymochles
swiftly
away
to
her
drowsy
little
nest
of
delights.
How
can
I
tell
why
Keats
has
never
been
brought
here,
and
why
Spenser
is
brought
again
and
again?
Who
shall
follow
the
dark
intricacies
of
the
elementary
female
mind?
It
is
safer
not
to
attempt
to
do
so,
but
by
simply
cataloguing
them
collectively
under
the
heading
Instinct,
have
done
with
them
once
and
for
all.
Marker
Marker
Fine marker
White-out
Fine white-out
Circle
Paint
Unmarker
Hand
Scalpel
Dice
Sieve
Purify
Undo
Redo
Start over
