_Pathos_


When winter twilight falls on my street with the rain, a sense
of the horrible sadness of life descends upon me. I think of
drunken old women who drown themselves because nobody loves
them; I think of Napoleon at St. Helena, and of Byron growing
morose and fat in the enervating climate of Italy.




_Inconstancy_


The rose that one wears and throws away, the friend one forgets,
the music that passes--out of the well-known transitoriness of
mortal things I have made myself a maxim or precept to the
effect that it is foolish to look for one face, or to listen
long for one voice, in a world that is after all, as I know,
full of enchanting voices.

But all the same, I can never quite forget the enthusiasm with
which, as a boy, I read the praises of Constancy and True Love,
and the unchanged Northern Star.