And that woman he had once dreamed might mother his own children--
where was she? Until a few years ago he had still expected, hoped to
meet her. One day they would come together. She waited somewhere. It
was only recently he had let the dream slip finally from him,
abandoned with many another personal ambition.
Idly he picked up a pencil, and before he was aware of it the words
ran into lines. It seemed as though his cousin's mood, thought,
inspiration, worked through him.
Upon what flowering shore,
'Neath what blue skies
She stands and waits,
It is not mine to know;
Only I know that shore is fair,
Those skies are blue.
Her voice I may not hear,
Nor see her eyes,
Yet there are times
When in the wind she speaks.
When stars and flowers
Tell me of her eyes.
When rivers chant her name.
If ever signs were sure,
I know she waits;
If not, what means this sweetness in the wind,
The singing in the rain, the love in flowers?
What mean these whispers in the air,
This calling from the hills and from the sea?
These tendernesses of the Day and Night?
Unless she waits!
What in the world was this absurd sweetness running in his veins?
He laughed a little. A slight flush, too, came and went its way.
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