" The day, with all its pain ahead, is yours. The ceaseless creasing of the morning sea, the fluttering gamboge cedar leaves allegro, the rods of the yawning branches trolling the breeze, the rusted meadows, the wind-whitened grass, the coos of the stone-colored ground doves on the road, the echo of benediction on a house – its rooms of pain, its verandah of remorse when joy lanced through its open-hearted doors like a hummingbird out to the garden and the pool in which the sky has fallen. These are all yours, and pain has made them brighter as absence does after a death, as the light heals the grass. "