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137
The Solitary Summer
·
Elizabeth Von Arnim
42
There
were
no
clouds,
and
presently,
while
I
watched,
the
sun
came
up
quickly
out
of
the
rye,
a
great,
bare,
red
ball,
and
the
grey
of
the
field
turned
yellow,
and
long
shadows
lay
upon
the
grass,
and
the
wet
flowers
flashed
out
diamonds.
And
then
as
I
sat
there
watching,
and
intensely
happy
as
I
imagined,
suddenly
the
certainty
of
grief,
and
suffering,
and
death
dropped
like
a
black
curtain
between
me
and
the
beauty
of
the
morning,
and
then
that
other
thought,
to
face
which
needs
all
our
courage--the
realisation
of
the
awful
solitariness
in
which
each
of
us
lives
and
dies.
Often
I
could
cry
for
pity
of
our
forlornness,
and
of
the
pathos
of
our
endeavours
to
comfort
ourselves.
With
what
an
agony
of
patience
we
build
up
the
theories
of
consolation
that
are
to
protect,
in
times
of
trouble,
our
quivering
and
naked
souls!
And
how
fatally
often
the
elaborate
machinery
refuses
to
work
at
the
moment
the
blow
is
struck.
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