The invisible arc traced by the sun in the southern sky on its daily circuit, day by day, is shifting more noticeably to the north and is lifting itself higher off the horizon as spring draws closer. Although the warmth of the promised season has yet to manifest, this moving sun throws down upon the world a brighter light, as if it knows this feature of my childhood dreams in which each outdoor scene is brightly lit by wondrous light, as if it says to me alone, Here are your childhood dreams come back again. I cannot bring you peace, no more can I do that than can my sister, but I can bring you this light instead.
And so the bare garden, with its bare and spiky willow branches that finger the cerulean sky, groping, grasping, fills with such a radiance. It is a gift, this light, which I cannot reject, for it would be present, here, today, and for all those few days past when it has been and gone already, whether I am present here or not. So I will not say, Thank you. I can manage without, even though I could manage without, and even though I do not really appreciate my childhood dreams being re-awakened. Such a present should not stimulate, provoke perhaps, such deep despair, yet it does, so I say to the sun, I am sorry for that. But the sun does not reply, unless this light that swills about me like so much incandescent milk is the reply. Today, it is such a grim light that seems unaccountably out of place.