Long and often as I've sat in intense silent passion and gazed at the red, red sunset sky, I have never then felt this sense of the divine.
It comes only through humor.
It comes only with things like an Italian peddler-woman in a black satine wrapper and an ancient cape.
My soul—how heavily it goes.
Life is a journeying up a spring-time hill. And at the top we wonder why we are there. Have mercy on me, I implore in a dull idea that the journey is so long—so long, and a human being is less than an atom.
The solid, heavy figure of an Italian peddler-woman with a telescope valise, limping away in the afternoon sunshine, is more convincing of the Things that Are than would be the sound of the wailing of legions of lost souls, could it be heard.
For the world must be amused.
And the world's wind listeth as it bloweth.
