Reading art thou winged.
I can salvage the idle hours, but O if I waver or am infirm get me at once to my books; my dividing strength, my secret door to that garden of alchemy where lavishing over Her voluble blooms, rather the reader grows. Nutritive to my temper and interests must there be a story on my person or at my bedside at any moment. It is the lamp that dims unnecessaries, a fire by which the intellect is warmed. Where in one simple afternoon I can delight freely in the childlike fervency of my Nature by the prospects of a first page, then settle into a tired wisdom, at the last.
Can it not be said, that only he can meet calm and relief who is storm-worn and standing and who has not stumbled thus his respiring? Who has allowed his balance to find him by at last keeping still though else nothing is, and having flung to the gusts for the valley below his charge and strain of striving vain. By not gripped by the incertitude of factual things such as winds and aims, they ceased to fatigue him and fell away into vanishment the more he fought them not. He has seen his depths and caring less for heights is happy if he can burn the day sitting on the adret of his Himalaya, to finish a good book and gathering there in himself like the snow and sunlight around him, and passing unhindered through his own being like the tide of ordinance.
Retreating with a book and my slanted thoughts to the cafeterias of the world would surely see me through.
Methinks, of all the rains that fall, the best fall wholehearted and constant. That disregard ambitions hold any for the week it washes, and where no assumption of relent or sun is obvious through the cloudburst. Only then do we feel permitted unreservedly, to stall our cheap and demeaning enterprising into the world, and confine ourselves to the warmer, more civil duties of the self, and homestead. It is perhaps the finest time to lose in a good book.
This old bench has braved the changes, and, perhaps for its lonely place has long enchanted me to sit and share in its story, or receptivity learn. Under strained Apollo’s grace, reacquainting myself with a Winter scene when playful Aurae dance upon the atmosphere with jovial abandon, weaving and brushing glassy chimes whose tickled laughter is symphony of children’s revelry. The arterial bough that splits the sky has long ago cast off her lush ribbons and contented seeming with her nakedness displayed, owns a most essential refinement that nature consents yet ever struggles humanity against. We too, in due season must, without arrogance our gifts receive, and surrender them without strife.
At last, I have reached that age the elderly folk often would depict, where I fain envy no more than simple pleasantries, such as a book and a cup of tea, to see out my evenings. If it be, as indicated it would, within my refined want and most essential influence to improve the moment, a fine and temperate wood-fire to warm the travelled spirit into bliss is tours end.