Волны

           Helookedatme,turningtofaceme;hegavemehispoem.Allmistscurlofftheroofofmybeing.ThatconfidenceIshallkeeptomydyingday.Likealongwave,likearollofheavywaters,hewentoverme,hisdevastatingpresence--draggingmeopen,layingbarethepebblesontheshoreofmysoul.Itwashumiliating;Iwasturnedtosmallstones.Allsemblanceswererolledup."YouarenotByron;youareyourself."Tobecontractedbyanotherpersonintoasinglebeing--howstrange.

           ’Howstrangetofeelthelinethatisspunfromuslengtheningitsfinefilamentacrossthemistyspacesoftheinterveningworld.Heisgone;Istandhere,holdinghispoem.Betweenusisthisline.Butnow,howcomfortable,howreassuringtofeelthatalienpresenceremoved,thatscrutinydarkenedandhoodedover!Howgratefultodrawtheblinds,andadmitnootherpresence;tofeelreturningfromthedarkcornersinwhichtheytookrefuge,thoseshabbyinmates,thosefamiliars,whom,withhissuperiorforce,hedroveintohiding.Themocking,theobservantspiritswho,eveninthecrisisandstabofthemoment,watchedonmybehalfnowcomeflockinghomeagain.Withtheiraddition,IamBernard;IamByron;Iamthis,thatandtheother.Theydarkentheairandenrichme,asofold,withtheirantics,theircomments,andcloudthefinesimplicityofmymomentofemotion.ForIammoreselvesthanNevillethinks.Wearenotsimpleasourfriendswouldhaveustomeettheirneeds.Yetloveissimple.

           ’Nowtheyhavereturned,myinmates,myfamiliars.