“See me you shall, but in a more substantial shape, in a shape more dear
to you than I am now. You shall see me as Aunty Mille, and I shall say,
'Write poetry, my sweet boy! You are a great poet, perhaps the greatest we
have!' But if you believe me, and begin to write poetry, then I will set music
to your verses, and play them on your mouth harp. You sweet child!
Remember me when you see Aunty Mille!”
Then she disappeared.
At our parting I received a thrust through my jawbone like that of a red-
hot awl; but it soon subsided, and then I felt as if I were gliding along the
smooth water; I saw the white water lilies, with their large green leaves,
bending and sinking down under me; they withered and dissolved, and I
sank, too, and dissolved into peace and rest.
“To die, and melt away like snow!” resounded in the water; “to evaporate
into air, to drift away like the clouds!”
Great, glowing names and inscriptions on waving banners of victory, the
letters patent of immortality, written on the wing of an ephemera, shone
down to me through the water.
The sleep was deep, a sleep now without dreams. I did not hear the
whistling wind, the banging gate, the ringing of the neighbor's gate bell, or
the lodger's strenuous gymnastics.
What happiness!
Then came a gust of wind so strong that the locked door to Aunty's room
burst open. Aunty jumped up, put on her shoes, got dressed, and came into
my room. I was sleeping like one of God's angels, she said, and she had not
the heart to awaken me.
I later awoke by myself and opened my eyes. I had completely forgotten
that Aunty was in the house, but I soon remembered it and then
remembered my toothache vision. Dream and reality were blended.
“I suppose you did not write anything last night after we said good
night?” she said. “I wish you had; you are my poet and shall always be!”
