“This spring is cold.” said I to him.
And at that he replied, “An old soul carries winter .”
“And yet…” said he, “Methinks that you might feel warmth if only you would fall.”
“Fall?!” said I, “Falstaff you mean, for falling is for fools.”
“But fools can teachers be.” said he.
“Spring is a coward anyway and Winter is so brave. I would rather shielded be by icy fortress than slain in open green plain!” This point I made with emotion because it sustained me true.
He looked right through my cold blue depths and quietly he said, “I see my dear that you know not of what sweet Spring is made and for that, I weep for you.”
Startled at his solemnity and wanting for a shift, I queried him about his works and rambled on and on, but staunch in his argument he pointed out to me that his works were based on love, even in tragedy.