God, He Thought, Her Eyes Are So

The Further In You Go, The Bigger It Gets.

There Was After All No Mystery In The End Of Love, No Mystery But The Mystery Of Love Itself, Which Was Large Certainly But As Real As Grass, As Natural And Unaccountable As Bloom And Branch And Their Growth.

Violet Said Nothing, Though Big Pearly Tears, Like A Child's, Trembled At Her Lashes. She Suddenly Missed John Very Much. Into Him She Could Pour All The Inarticulate Perceptions, All The Knowings And Unknowings She Felt, Which, Though He Couldn't Understand Them Really, He Would Receive Reverently, And Out Of Him Would Come Then The Advice, The Warnings, The Clever Decisions She Could Never Have Made.

It Was Anyway All A Long Time Ago; The World, We Know Now, Is As It Is And Not Different; If There Was Ever A Time When There Were Passages, Doors, The Borders Open And Many Crossing, That Time Is Not Now. The World Is Older Than It Was. Even The Weather Isn’t As We Remember It Clearly Once Being; Never Lately Does There Come A Summer Day Such As We Remember, Never Clouds As White As That, Never Grass As Odorous Or Shade As Deep And Full Of Promise As We Remember They Can Be, As Once Upon A Time They Were.

Learning To Decipher Words Had Only Added To The Pleasures Of Holding Spines And Turning Pages, Measuring The Journey To The End With A Thumb-riffle, Poring Over Frontispieces. Books! Opening With A Crackle Of Old Glue, Releasing Perfume; Closing With A Solid Thump.