—He does not see himself.
He moves through a black Hole
Bright—pouring brightness.
Where is a Sun whereby a Sun may see?
—I have ten fingers ... ten to weave a Web
To catch at God.
Too frail—too fine ... yet you slip through?
* * *
Fanny looked out from her back sun-parlor upon trees.
Beside a high grey wall rose the thick life of a magnolia; beech and cherry and dogwood sang their light swift presences, a lawn was fresh like dew.
“Trees,” she murmured....—They have waited the Winter. It is Spring, they prepare to give a whole new life—blossom and seed. That is why it is Spring. Each year ... at their feet the dead leaves sink and rot. They push forth new ones. Each year.... They cannot help themselves.
She could go no farther.—Helpless bravery.... Upstairs in her cradle Edith slept. Harry was gone, voiceless, eight months. She was imprisoned in her man’s absence, in her child’s presence.
She had a dream. Harry jumped on his black horse, stood over her in his stirrups. He ribboned the black flanks red with his spurs. The horse leaped: as he flew away he leaned to her and cut deep her breast with his crop.... She awoke thinking of Edith. Her child was the red salute of Harry’s going: the scar of it. She loved her child.
She had a dream. A tall man with a baby’s face lay crowding in her arms. She could kiss his baby’s face, but he had tall legs, they spun and twirled about her. They struck a lamp which fell, the house was in flame. All of the town rushed into her house: she saw his father and mother, her mother who was dead and brother ... all of the city came into her sitting among flame holding a baby face. They stood there, pointing, poising, sneering at her. “What is she going to do? She sat rigid holding her baby face. What a fool, she sits there nursing a dead child with fire all about her!” She was helpless.