I see whole bevies of shooting stars—like gold arrows before my darkening eyes—they presage Headache—but before the black—and burning—I have a small light space to say—oh what? I cannot let you burn me up. I cannot. I should go up—not with the orderly peace of my beloved hearth here—with its miniature caverns of delight, its hot temporary jewel-gardens with their palisadoes and promontories—no—I shall go up—like Straw on a Dry Day—a rushing wind—a tremor on the air—a smell of burning—a blown smoke—and a deal of white fine powder that holds its spillikin shape only an infinitesimal moment and
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