To my poor self on my deathbed,
And all my dear companions dead,
Because of the love that I bore them,
_Dona Eis Requiem._
I say 'I ended.' But I did not really end there, for I also wrote in
the spirit of the rest a verse of Mea Culpa and Confession of Sin, but
I shall not print it here.
So my song over and the woods now left behind, I passed up a dusty
piece of road into Moutier, a detestable town, all whitewashed and
orderly, down under the hills.
I was tired, for the sun was now long risen and somewhat warm, and I
had walked ten miles, and that over a high ridge; and I had written a
canticle and sung it - - and all that without a sup or a bite. I
therefore took bread, coffee, and soup in Moutier, and then going a
little way out of the town I crossed a stream off the road, climbed a
knoll, and, lying under a tree, I slept.
I awoke and took the road.
The road after Moutier was not a thing for lyrics; it stirred me in no
way. It was bare in the sunlight, had fields on either side; and in
the fields stood houses. In the houses were articulately-speaking
mortal men.
