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All the wild sweetness of the flower tangled against the wall. it was that magic, silent hour.... the branches grew so tall they twined themselves into a bower. the sun shown ... and the fall of yellow blossom on the grass! you feel that golden rain? both of you could not hold, alas, (both of you tried, in vain) a memory, stranger. so i pass.... it will not come again.
-Katherine Mansfield
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All The Wild Sweetness Of The Flower

Katherine Mansfield
All the wild sweetness of the flower tangled against the wall. it was that magic, silent hour.... the branches grew so tall they twined themselves into a bower. the sun shown ... and the fall of yellow blossom on the grass! you feel that golden rain? both of you could not hold, alas, (both of you tried, in vain) a memory, stranger. so i pass.... it will not come again.
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Wall Memories Spring

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And what does the rain say at night in a small town, what does the rain have to say? who walks beneath dripping melancholy branches listening to the rain? who is there in the rain’s million-needled blurring splash, listening to the grave music of the rain at night, september rain, september rain, so dark and soft? who is there listening to steady level roaring rain all around, brooding and listening and waiting, in the rain-washed, rain-twinkled dark of night?
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It's no fun to be yellow. maybe i'm not all yellow. i don't know. i think maybe i'm just partly yellow and partly the type that doesn't give much of a damn if they lose their gloves. one of my troubles is, i never care too much when i lose something - it used to drive mother crazy when i was a kid. some guys spend days looking for something they've lost. i never seem to have anything that if i lost it i'd care too much. maybe that's why i'm partly yellow. it's no excuse, though. it really isn't. what you should be is not yellow at all.
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