the fifteenth is Isolation, pale purple stone—it makes me feel never at home, never at ease, never belonging—a subtle insulation—in this sheltered peopled world.
the sixteenth is Bewilderment, mixed-tinted stone—by it I wonder what is truth with truth seeming that moment fluttering soft-plumed wings at my throat.
the seventeenth is—it has no name—the Feel-of-Me, bright blue-green stone, lovely and loathesome—by it I’ve lost my way, I’ve felt all and only Me when I might have groped outward, hand and foot, and found a wind-swept path to go in: I was always blurred by Me.
A small Necklace, all dull gleams and unusual tints, strung finely and strongly and beautifully on shining gold. The sweet Soul droops like a wilted lily under even its slight weight. Strong fine rivets hold it firm-clasped and the weight of the two charming imitation pendant-stones keep it gracefully in place. My loved and lovely Soul has worn it through the ages: manacle, shackle.
How long more—God may know but does not tell me.
It’s only a Necklace. And my Soul is a Soul!
Even under the frail galling burden of the flesh the Soul of me to-morrow could tear off that Necklace and crumble it to airless nothing.
It does not: but could.