I have been several uncompressed days, without an account of my becoming, and delighting in the contours and tone of a new morning sky has long been increments clear of reach. For those wonton days leave little to heave upon the pages then, and all the disenthralled while I was courting distraction has Nature borne the lonely anniversaries with hushed distress, waiting at the window dressed in Spring light.
Between us I put every bleakness. I am the sole bringer of the sleet that piles sable on our sill. I closed tight our portal, by coarse inattention, wandering terribly, failing, and still would She not know how to produce an unfair Winter. Her fits She takes for thunder but apologetic snow flakes prove, swirling for some place to be hid of the shame and Her warmth by soon dispelled. She will not withal long let me brood to trivialities, sighing unawares the breeze finds fissure under my glacial coat to the busied consciousness leads, and I am saved! Saved at last from what grave hex overtook, when all thy severest balm did nothing dissuade. It amounted to a whisper, my rescue; surrounded and agonisingly crystal –
Your mundane duties, forswear. Come back to me.
Man, never your eyes avert, whence being gone must some part return; to reconcile with Universe.