I have compassion on myself.
I see again the rainy shore that I saw before time was, before earth's drama was unfolded; and the woman on the sands.

She moans and weeps, among the pictures which the clouds of mortality offer and withdraw, amid that which weaves the rain.

She speaks so low that I feel it is to me she speaks.

She is one with me.

Love--it comes back to me.
Love is an unhappy man and unhappy woman.
I awake--uttering the feeble cry of the babe new-born.
All grows pale, and paler.