we wonder why some of us are given faith to trust without question, while the rest of us are left to eat out our life's vitals with asking.
I have walked once in summer by the side of a little marsh filled with mint and white hawthorn. The mint and white hawthorn have with them a vivid, rare, delicious perfume. It makes you want to grovel on the ground—it makes you think you might crawl in the dust all your days, and well for you. The perfume lingers with you afterward when years have passed. You may scream and kick and struggle and weep right lustily every day of your life, but in your moments of calmness sometimes there will come back to you the fragrance of a swamp filled with mint and white hawthorn.
It is meltingly beautiful.
What does it mean?
What would it tell?
Why does the marsh, and the mint and white hawthorn, freeze over in the
