The bluffs by which the river flow, the withered leaves from under which only spring up the trees and nothing else, the rocks and blue skies of rough, romantic country, the ferns and slender, shooting trees, the hawthorn wet in winter beside a winter-wet sidewalk, these, now these return to me.
How about a thousand-year old linden tree to live near? A bordered walk, some winter berries in the winter sun? How about a block and concrete city, tall about one, with its leisured places, polished wood and silverware? Oh dreams.
Oh sunlight in the glens, through trees falling, through green and shining white on waters rolling in a distant gorge! Again under the lamps it comes to me.
A blurry picture of a glen, a grey sky and a flat grey river winding, thickets of gorse, I see and then the sun arrives, the skies dramatic with white lightning in the arteries between the clouds. The gorse waves in the breeze leading down to the sea.
What a wild desire now for nature, for some hot day among the cliffs and bowing grasses, a flat rock with its lizard, the slope ascending and ascending toward small pines. The gorse seen from this vantage hides darknesses that lead away, under the hill and beneath the roots of pines, away, and sloping down the moist, the closeness of the earth, the dryness eventually, and down away, on rock which opens up from fissure forward to a standing cave where drip the drops of water down, and down along a winding, gurgling channel on a slippery ledge, a tunnel shrinking all about toward some light which brightens, grows a shaggy outline at the end, and dazzles into sun on the blue sea below. Emerging at the summit of the waterfall, one could fly.