We had a walk in the wood that has remained in my memory as one of the sweetest hours I spent at Tyringham. She soon accustomed herself to my knowledge of her secret, and this created an intimacy between us that was rare and pleasant.
At that early hour the woods were dark and fresh, and the light upon a meadow we were approaching reminded me of a forgotten poet:
"I knew the flowers; I knew the leaves; I knew
The tearful glimmer of the languid dawn
On those long rank dark wood walks drenched with dew
Leading from lawn to lawn."
I quoted them to her and she responded to them; wanted to know the poet's name and more of his work; and as the autumn mist lay heavy on the lower pastures and the heavy fragrance of the autumn woods filled the air, I repeated to her those other lines of his:
"The woods decay; the woods decay and fall,
The vapors weep their burthen to the ground;
Man comes and tills the earth and lies beneath,
And after many a summer dies the swan.
Me only, cruel immortality consumes
Here at the Eastern limit of the day——"
She put a hand on my arm and stopped me:
"What is that again, 'Me only, cruel——'"
I repeated the line to her.
"What a subject," she said; "not for a Tithonus—no; what a thought to work into my group!"
I saw her meaning: Man might subdue Nature to his use; what then? Was he to be nevertheless forever consumed by immortality? Here was the limit to his triumph; its shadow and reverse.