Портрет художника в юності

           Hetriedtowarmhisperishingjoyintheirscarletglow,imaginingarosewayfromwherehelayupwardstoheavenallstrewnwithscarletflowers.Weary!Weary!Hetoowaswearyofardentways.

           Agradualwarmth,alanguorouswearinesspassedoverhimdescendingalonghisspinefromhiscloselycowledhead.Hefeltitdescendand,seeinghimselfashelay,smiled.Soonhewouldsleep.

           Hehadwrittenversesforheragainaftertenyears.Tenyearsbeforeshehadwornhershawlcowlwiseaboutherhead,sendingspraysofherwarmbreathintothenightair,tappingherfootupontheglassyroad.Itwasthelasttram;thelankbrownhorsesknewitandshooktheirbellstotheclearnightinadmonition.Theconductortalkedwiththedriver,bothnoddingofteninthegreenlightofthelamp.Theystoodonthestepsofthetram,heontheupper,sheonthelower.Shecameuptohisstepmanytimesbetweentheirphrasesandwentdownagainandonceortwiceremainedbesidehimforgettingtogodownandthenwentdown.Letbe!Letbe!

           Tenyearsfromthatwisdomofchildrentohisfolly.Ifhesenthertheverses?Theywouldbereadoutatbreakfastamidthetappingofegg-shells.Follyindeed!Herbrotherswouldlaughandtrytowrestthepagefromeachotherwiththeirstronghardfingers.Thesuavepriest,heruncle,seatedinhisarm-chair,wouldholdthepageatarm’slength,readitsmilingandapproveoftheliteraryform.

           No,no;thatwasfolly.