And Yet Her Name Was

It Was Cold Autumn Weather, But In Spite Of The Cold They Wandered Up And Down The Roads Of The Park For Nearly Three Hours. They Agreed To Break Off Their Intercourse; Every Bond, He Said, Is A Bond To Sorrow.

What Birds Were They? (...) He Listened To The Cries: Like The Squeak Of Mice Be- Hind The Wainscot : A Shrill Twofold Note. But The Notes Were Long And Shrill And Whirring, Unlike The Cry Of Vermin, Falling A Third Or A Fourth And Trilled As The Flying Beaks Clove The Air. Their Cry Was Shrill And Clear And Fine And Falling Like Threads Of Silken Light Unwound From Whirring Spools.

In The Particular Is Contained The Universal.

A Wild Angel Had Appeared To Him, The Angel Of Mortal Youth And Beauty, An Envoy From The Fair Courts Of Life, To Throw Open Before Him In An Instant Of Ecstasy The Gates Of All The Ways Of Error And Glory.

There's No Friends Like The Old Friends.