I thought that I could not be hurt; I thought that I must surely be impervious to suffering immune to pain or agony. My world was warm with April sun my thoughts were spangled green and gold; my soul filled up with joy, yet felt the sharp, sweet pain that only joy can hold. My spirit soared above the gulls that, swooping breathlessly so high overhead, now seem to to brush their whirring wings against the blue roof of the sky. (How frail the human heart must be— a throbbing pulse, a trembling thing— a fragile, shining instrument of crystal, which can either weep, or sing.) Then, suddenly my world turned gray, and darkness wiped aside my joy. A dull and aching void was left where careless hands had reached out to destroy my silver web of happiness. The hands then stopped in wonderment, for, loving me, they wept to see the tattered ruins of my firmament (How frail the human heart must be a mirrored pool of thought. So deep and tremulous an instrument ...
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