There are just a couple of others, perhaps
three; but they are not of great consequence. 'Il y fait trop chaud--ou
pas assez!' They are failures.
The sun, the father sun, _le bon gros pere_, rains life on to the
mother earth. A poor little life it was at first, as you know--grasses
and moss, and little wriggling, transparent things--all stomach; it is
quite true! That is what we come from--Shakespeare, and you, and I!
* * * * *
After each individual death the earth retains each individual clay to
be used again and again; and, as far as I can see, it rains back each
individual essence to the sun--or somewhere near it--like a precious
water-drop returned to the sea, where it mingles, after having been
about and seen something of the world, and learned the use of five small
wits--and remembering all! Yes, like that poor little exiled wandering
water-drop in the pretty song your father used to sing, and which always
manages to find its home at last--
_'Va passaggier' in fiume,
Va prigionier' in fonte,
Ma sempre ritorn' al mar.'_
Or else it is as if little grains of salt were being showered into the
Mare d'Auteuil, to melt and mingle with the water and each other till
the Mare d'Auteuil itself was as salt as salt can be.
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