“Do you hear the silent song of the forest?”
I nodded.
“Silence! Silence!” he muttered.
We walked among the trees. We came back to the same hilltop, when the large red ball of the sun sank heavily from the Gate.
“Bye-bye!” I shook my handkerchief.
The playful breeze carried it away. It glimmered like a silvery inspiration. Who knows how far it sailed?
I thought a huge statue of the Muse bidding sayonara to the dying sun would be the fitting ornamentation for these Heights. Countless numbers of people would look upon it from the valley. It would be a salvation, if they could bind themselves with Poesy by its noble figure. There was no question it would be more effective than a thousand pages of poem.
“I have no coin to build it,” the poet said, in dear openness.
“Let me present it by and by!”
“When?