Angels and Women (1924)
Angels and Women (1924) Angels and Women (1924)
Second Moon.OCHANGETIME of grief and loss l O days andnights of woe l O dumb and lifelesshours l Is this the happy valley where myyouth was passed? I seem aged now. Thecypresses are black like funeral yews; theirshade is darkness, and yet the light of day ishateful to my eyes, dim with weeping. Othat I could find the gravel My mothermourns, but not with deep sorrow. In hersoft eyes is no retrospective glance, but agentle light like coming day.How shall I recover the broken thread ofmy story? How make up the calendar ofsorrow marked by the dial as ten suns only,but weighted with the woe of years? Yetthis journal, lightly begun at the suggestionof my beloved father, must be continued as asacred duty.As we stepped upon the boat made ready39
40 ANGELS AND WOMENto receive us, Father and Cheros, with longpoles, pushed from the shore and aided thewide-spread sail that propelled us slowlyalong. The great branch of the Euphrateswhich we were ascending, though now desertedand lonely, in far-gone years waslively with the boats of pilgrims to Eden,and heavy vessels bearing the products ofother lands to the great cities on its shore;but the Wicked Ones who control the affairsof the world have desolated this plain, strivingto obliterate from the memory of mankindevery reminiscence of the lost Paradise !I was too much occupied with the unaccustomedscene to find room for mournfulthoughts. Only when my eyes fell upon thesnow-white lamb resting by the green herbsprovided for his food, and I observed thegrave faces of my parents, did I rememberthe strange event of yesterday and realizethe serious object of our journey. As thehours of this delightful day drew to a close,and the declining sun veiled in mist warned
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Second Moon.OCHANGETIME of grief <strong>and</strong> loss l O days <strong>and</strong>nights of woe l O dumb <strong>and</strong> lifelesshours l Is this the happy valley where myyouth was passed? I seem aged now. Thecypresses are black like funeral yews; theirshade is darkness, <strong>and</strong> yet the light of day ishateful to my eyes, dim with weeping. Othat I could find the gravel My mothermourns, but not with deep sorrow. In hersoft eyes is no retrospective glance, but agentle light like coming day.How shall I recover the broken thread ofmy story? How make up the calendar ofsorrow marked by the dial as ten suns only,but weighted with the woe of years? Yetthis journal, lightly begun at the suggestionof my beloved father, must be continued as asacred duty.As we stepped upon the boat made ready39
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