4206. THE WAXEN HORSES WHICH DEPART

THE WAXEN HORSES

WHICH DEPART

I am the one slave to nature whom you already

know : I kill no thing, not bug nor flower. The

rhapsody of my play is but a symphony of Life.

There is a continuing ecstasy to be found in such

goodness - or do you not mind that I mind?

-

All those waxen horses which depart : heart and

mind and mind and heart together : they never leave

without first thanking me. And now it is only that

I look back - wondering what might have been

had this all been a better place. Trees on the

horizon, wild dogs on the plain of plenty. The

small river of a thread of water, glissending

its way silently through hill and hollow while

all men watch, agape, and tethered to

time and place, yes, tethered to

both time and place.