There is only the light of her little lamp to caress her loosened hair, in which the others cannot yet see the white ones, the frosty hairs that she alone touches.
Her door is shut, decisive, banal, dreary.
Among some papers on my table I see the poem again which we once found out of doors, the bit of paper escaped from the mysterious hands which wrote on it, and come to the stone seat.

It ended by whispering, "Only I know the tears that brimming rise, your beauty blended with your smile to espy." In the days of yore it had made us smile with delight.

To-night there are real tears in my eyes.

What is it?
I dimly see that there is something more than what we have seen, than what we have said, than what we have felt to-day.

One day, perhaps, she and I will exchange better and richer sayings; and so, in that day, all the sadness will be of some service..