'Enough,' I said to myself as I moved with lagging steps over the steep
mountainside down to the quiet little brook. 'Enough,' I said again, as
I drank in the resinous fragrance of the pinewood, strong and pungent in
the freshness of falling evening. 'Enough,' I said once more, as I sat
on the mossy mound above the little brook and gazed into its dark,
lingering waters, over which the sturdy reeds thrust up their pale green
blades.... 'Enough.'
No more struggle, no more strain, time to draw in, time to keep firm
hold of the head and to bid the heart be silent. No more to brood over
the voluptuous sweetness of vague, seductive ecstasy, no more to run
after each fresh form of beauty, no more to hang over every tremour of
her delicate, strong wings.
All has been felt, all has been gone through... I am weary. What to me
now that at this moment, larger, fiercer than ever, the sunset floods
the heavens as though aflame with some triumphant passion? What to me
that, amid the soft peace and glow of evening, suddenly, two paces
hence, hidden in a thick bush's dewy stillness, a nightingale has sung
his heart out in notes magical as though no nightingale had been on
earth before him, and he first sang the first song of first love? All
this was, has been, has been again, and is a thousand times
repeated--and to think that it will last on so to all eternity--as
though decreed, ordained--it stirs one's wrath! Yes... wrath!