Nights grow shorter. Birds return.
The long, mourning Winter softens into tender Spring.
Earth sweeps through her epic costume changes, and the actors come and go from the stage of our little life.
Nature, in her gaudy battle garb, conspires with dreadful Disease and fickle Fate to grasp home her own before timid Time can parry. The scene is ruined. The gig is up. We watchers mourn for lost Love, lost Hope, lost Life. We mourn for the Act that could have been.
Gentle reader, the play is true and hard. You too must take a role; you must lose what you love.
Tears, Sighs, Groaning and Agony: these dreadful sisters will accompany you. Your songs will be lamentable; your food and drink will be ashes, day and night.
Your tiny human mind and mortal body will be squeezed through an amazing labyrinth. An ordeal of fire will steel you against the inconceivable. Shackled to an unyielding rock, you will live and re-live the plot in the living land. When these trials come, you will be brought very low, but you will persevere and learn the new and weirder way.
After all that, an even stranger scene unfolds. You will long for Grief. You will feel doubly bereft, because Pain visits less often, and you will miss that too.
Seize the little foxes that destroy the vineyards.
The rain is over and gone. The time of singing has come.
Rest in peace Bruce Hill.