Tuesday, July 7, 2015

Lost in Thought: July 7, 2015

On the further bank the willows wept in perpetual lamentation, their hair about their shoulders.  The river reflected whatever it chose of sky and bridge and burning
tree, and when the undergraduate had oared his boat through the reflections they closed again, completely, as if he had never been.  There one might have sat the clock round lost in thought. Thought--to  call it by a prouder name than it deserved--had let its line down into
the stream. It swayed, minute after minute, hither and thither among the reflections and the weeds, letting the water lift it and sink it until--you know the little tug--the sudden conglomeration of an idea at the end of one's line: and then the cautious hauling of it in, and the careful laying of it out? Alas, laid on the grass how small, how
insignificant this thought of mine looked; the sort of fish that a good fisherman puts back into the water so that it may grow fatter and be one day worth cooking and eating.

A Room of One's Own 

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