Dawn is some sort of whitening of the sky;
some sort of renewal. Another day; another Friday; another twentieth of March, January,
or September. Another general awakening.
The stars draw back and are extinguished. The bars deepen themselves between the
waves. The film of mist thickens on the
fields. A redness gathers on the roses,
even on the pale rose that hangs by the bedroom window. A bird chirps. Cottagers light their early candles. Yes, this is the eternal renewal, the
incessant rise and fall and fall and rise again.
And in me too the wave rises.
The Waves (220)
January 20, 1932: Lytton
Strachey dies
No comments:
Post a Comment