I try not to write. The only things worth saying are the things I do not know how to say.
Every morning people take up the day like a burden. They carry its weight of dread along the hours, down the length of them to the end. Night comes at last, and they can lay the burden down, perhaps, for a little.
When it is over they will look back and know how beautiful this winter was, and what high places they had sight of from the strange far journeyings of the days.
When it is over they will know that it was good to work so hard, to give all, to be tired when night came.