For the child there was a Nothingness, and for the woman there is a great Nothingness.
Perhaps the Devil will bring me something in my lonely womanhood to put in my wooden heart.
But the time when I was a child will never come again. It is gone—gone. I may live through some long, long years, but nothing like it will ever come. For there is nothing like it.
It is a life by itself. It has naught to do with philosophy, or with genius, or with heights and depths, or with the red sunset sky, or with the Devil.
These come later.
The time of the child is a thing apart. It is the Planting and Seed-time. It is the Beginning of things. It decides whether there shall be brightness or bitterness in the long after-years.
I have left that time far enough behind me. It will never come back. And it had a Nothingness—do you
