Waves drumming on the shore and one long meditation on the meaning of life …
The Waves by Virginia Woolf
Kettle boiled yet?
But I never rise at dawn and see the purple drops in the cabbage leaves, the red drops in the roses. I do not watch the setter nose in a circle, or lie at night watching the leaves hide the stars and the stars move and the leaves hang still. The butcher calls: the milk has to be stood under a shade lest it should sour.
Sleep, I say, sleep, as the kettle boils and its breath comes thicker and thicker issuing in one jet from the spout. So life fills my veins. So life pours through my limbs. So I am driven forward till I could cry, as I move from dawn to dusk opening and shutting, ‘No more, I am glutted with natural happiness.’ Yet more will come, more children; more cradles, more baskets in the kitchen and hams ripening, and onions glistening, and more beds of lettuce and potatoes. I am blown like a leaf by the gale; now brushing the wet grass, now whirled up. I am glutted with natural happiness; and wish sometimes that the fullness would pass from me and the weight of the sleeping house rise, when we sit reading, and I stay the thread at the eye of my needle. The lamp kindles a fire in the dark pane. A fire burns in the heart of the ivy. I see a lit-up street in the evergreens. I hear traffic in the brush of the wind down the lane, and broken voices, and laughter, and Jinny who cries as the door opens, ‘Come, come.’
Epicurean Episodes 