He began composing a poem. A feeling of divine happiness possessed him; his heart seemed to expand as he breathed. Suddenly, he saw the old man fumble in a pocket. He brought out something wrapped in a linen handkerchief and laid it on his knees. With infinite care he slowly parted the folds of the handkerchief and Feodor saw a book bound in parchment and tied with purple silk ribbons. He moved a little nearer the old man, who untied the ribbons and spread the book open. The pages were printed with large, black letters. Each page had a blue letter at the top embroidered in gold and by the bright moonlight it was quite easy to read what was written. Feodor moved nearer still. Then he saw that each page was a poem. He leaned over the old man’s shoulder and read for himself poems such as he had never dreamed of—poems that sounded in his ears like bells ringing in some splendid tower—like waves beating on warm sands—like dark rivers falling down forest-clad mountains.
“
| — | Katherine Mansfield, “Tales of a Courtyard” (via katherine-mansfield) |
