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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