A Bird With A Broken

She Was Still Under The Spell Of Her Infatuation. She Had Tried To Forget Him, Realizing The Inutility Of Remembering. But The Thought Of Him Was Like An Obsession, Ever Pressing Itself Upon Her. It Was Not That She Dwelt Upon Details Of Their Acquaintance, Or Recalled In Any Special Or Peculiar Way His Personality; It Was His Being, His Existence, Which Dominated Her Thought, Fading Sometimes As If It Would Melt Into The Mist Of The Forgotten, Reviving Again With An Intensity Which Filled Her With An Incomprehensible Longing.

There Was A Dull Pang Of Regret Because It Was Not The Kiss Of Love Which Had Inflamed Her, Because It Was Not Love Which Had Held This Cup Of Life To Her Lips.

A Certain Light Was Beginning To Dawn Dimly Within Her,—the Light Which, Showing The Way, Forbids It.

There Are Some People Who Leave Impressions Not So Lasting As The Imprint Of An Oar Upon The Water.

In The Procession I Should Feel The Crushing Feet, The Clashing Discords, The Ruthless Hands And Stifling Breath. I Could Not Hear The Rhythm Of The March.