Миссис Дэллоуэй

           Throughallages—whenthepavementwasgrass,whenitwasswamp,throughtheageoftuskandmammoth,throughtheageofsilentsunrise,thebatteredwoman—forsheworeaskirt—withherrighthandexposed,herleftclutchingatherside,stoodsingingoflove—lovewhichhaslastedamillionyears,shesang,lovewhichprevails,andmillionsofyearsago,herlover,whohadbeendeadthesecenturies,hadwalked,shecrooned,withherinMay;butinthecourseofages,longassummerdays,andflaming,sheremembered,withnothingbutredasters,hehadgone;death’senormoussicklehadsweptthosetremendoushills,andwhenatlastshelaidherhoaryandimmenselyagedheadontheearth,nowbecomeamerecinderofice,sheimploredtheGodstolaybyhersideabunchofpurple-heather,thereonherhighburialplacewhichthelastraysofthelastsuncaressed;forthenthepageantoftheuniversewouldbeover.

           AstheancientsongbubbledupoppositeRegent’sParkTubestationstilltheearthseemedgreenandflowery;still,thoughitissuedfromsorudeamouth,amereholeintheearth,muddytoo,mattedwithrootfibresandtangledgrasses,stilltheoldbubblingburblingsong,soakingthroughtheknottedrootsofinfiniteages,andskeletonsandtreasure,streamedawayinrivuletsoverthepavementandallalongtheMaryleboneRoad,anddowntowardsEuston,fertilising,leavingadampstain.