When I’m dying, and near paradise, maybe the little boat will come like a cloud— like a wing— like a white light burning. This morning, in the actual fog beside the rocking sea, there was nothing— not a sail, not a soul. There was only this— an idea. Beauty can die all right— but don’t you worry, from utter darkness— since opposites are, finally, the same— comes light’s snowy field. And, as for eternity, what’s that but the collation of all the hours we have known of sweetness and urgency? The boat bounced and sparkled, then it trembled, then it shook, then it lay down on the waves. I believe
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