To Love Is Easy And Therefore Common

One June Evening, When The Orchards Were Pink-blossomed Again, When The Frogs Were Singing Silverly Sweet In The Marshes About The Head Of The Lake Of Shining Waters, And The Air Was Full Of The Savor Of Clover Fields And Balsamic Fir Woods, Anne Was Sitting By Her Gable Window. She Had Been Studying Her Lessons, But It Had Grown Too Dark To See The Book, So She Had Fallen Into Wide-eyed Reverie, Looking Out Past The Boughs Of The Snow Queen, Once More Bestarred With Its Tufts Of Blossom.

It Was October Again ... A Glorious October, All Red And Gold, With Mellow Mornings When The Valleys Were Filled With Delicate Mists As If The Spirit Of Autumn Had Poured Them In For The Sun To Drain - Amethyst, Pearl, Silver, Rose, And Smoke-blue. The Dews Were So Heavy That The Fields Glistened Like Cloth Of Silver And There Were Such Heaps Of Rustling Leaves In The Hollows Of Many-stemmed Woods To Run Crisply Through.

I Doubt If I Shall Ever Have Time To Read The Book Again -- There Are Too Many New Ones Coming Out All The Time Which I Want To Read. Yet An Old Book Has Something For Me Which No New Book Can Ever Have -- For At Every Reading The Memories And Atmosphere Of Other Readings Come Back And I Am Reading Old Years As Well As An Old Book.

I Suppose All This Sounds Very Crazy — All These Terrible Emotions Always Do Sound Foolish When We Put Them Into Our Inadequate Words. They Are Not Meant To Be Spoken — Only Felt And Endured.

As A Rule, I Am Very Careful To Be Shallow And Conventional Where Depth And Originality Are Wasted.