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235
The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft
·
George Gissing
234
XXVI.
Impatient
for
the
light
of
spring,
I
have
slept
lately
with
my
blind
drawn
up,
so
that
at
waking,
I
have
the
sky
in
view.
This
morning,
I
awoke
just
before
sunrise.
The
air
was
still;
a
faint
flush
of
rose
to
westward
told
me
that
the
east
made
fair
promise.
I
could
see
no
cloud,
and
there
before
me,
dropping
to
the
horizon,
glistened
the
horned
moon.
The
promise
held
good.
After
breakfast,
I
could
not
sit
down
by
the
fireside;
indeed,
a
fire
was
scarce
necessary;
the
sun
drew
me
forth,
and
I
walked
all
the
morning
about
the
moist
lanes,
delighting
myself
with
the
scent
of
earth.
On
my
way
home,
I
saw
the
first
celandine.
So,
once
more,
the
year
has
come
full
circle.
And
how
quickly;
alas,
how
quickly!
Can
it
be
a
whole
twelvemonth
since
the
last
spring?
Because
I
am
so
content
with
life,
must
life
slip
away,
as
though
it
grudged
me
my
happiness?
Time
was
when
a
year
drew
its
slow
length
of
toil
and
anxiety
and
ever
frustrate
waiting.
Further
away,
the
year
of
childhood
seemed
endless.
It
is
familiarity
with
life
that
makes
time
speed
quickly.
When
every
day
is
a
step
in
the
unknown,
as
for
children,
the
days
are
long
with
gathering
of
experience;
the
week
gone
by
is
already
far
in
retrospect
of
things
learnt,
and
that
to
come,
especially
if
it
foretell
some
joy,
lingers
in
remoteness.
Past
mid-life,
one
learns
little
and
expects
little.
To-day
is
like
unto
yesterday,
and
to
that
which
shall
be
the
morrow.
Only
torment
of
mind
or
body
serves
to
delay
the
indistinguishable
hours.
Enjoy
the
day,
and,
behold,
it
shrinks
to
a
moment.
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