“I don’t know, but I suppose that an eye is the least part of sight.”
“If he has better eyes than ours, does he see only atoms?”
“More likely colors that we can’t imagine.”
“Why, you believe it just as much as I do!”
“No, I am just saying perhaps.”
“Well, I’m sure about it. I just know he holds the earth off at arm’s length, and sees it all showery blue or billowy white. He sees it spin with a sunset edge. Even battle smoke doesn’t look ugly then.”
“No.”
“And sometimes he blows the clouds away and gets the atmosphere. It is full of voices that can’t be heard so far—at least I hope he never hears me crying. But I hope he gets my sweet familiar thrushes, my sweet birds antheming the morn. Do you think I’m crazy?”
“Far from it.”
“And you don’t mind my using poetry words?”