A three-day-long rain from the east -- an interminable talking, talking of no consequence -- patter, patter, patter. Hand in hand little winds blow the thin streams aslant. Warm. Distance cut off. Seclusion. A few passers-by, drawn in upon themselves, hurry from one place to another. Winds of the white poppy! there is no escape! -- An interminable talking, talking, talking . . . it has happened before. Backward, backward, backward. |