Have you seen an old, old stone on the seashore, when the brisk waves
are beating upon it from all sides, at high tide, on a sunny spring
day--beating and sparkling and caressing it, and drenching its mossy
head with crumbling pearls of glittering foam?
The stone remains the same stone, but brilliant colours start forth upon
its surly exterior.
They bear witness to that distant time when the molten granite was only
just beginning to harden and was all glowing with fiery hues.
Thus also did young feminine souls recently attack my old heart from all
quarters,--and beneath their caressing touch it glowed once more with
colours which faded long ago,--with traces of its pristine fire!
The waves have retreated ... but the colours have not yet grown dim,
although a keen breeze is drying them.
May, 1879.