Publisher's Synopsis
Excerpt from Later Love Letters of a Musician
I can see you now as you stood at the gate when I turned to look back after the last good-bye. I can see the mist of sorrow in your sweet eyes and your dear hands reach ing out to mine. Your fingers were on my heart-strings then, and it seemed as if I could not go.
I wonder, after all, if we have had what the world calls a home - if it has not rather been a regained and glorified Eden. At the beginning it seemed impossible for you to be even a little dearer than you were, but each day has bound us closer together, and now I realise, perhaps for the first time, that we are truly one.
Night comes to the tired heart as well as to the world. The restless fever of life must sometimes pause; at midday, it may be, or in those sunny silences of the afternoon whenthe long light rests upon the hills and the waning day breathes sadness. When the stillness comes, it is like a sanctuary from which the last worshipper has departed, leav ing the soul to itself.
And then, as a nun to the Cloister, comes the Angel of Memory. Her light feet make no sound and upon her grey wings lies the Dew of Forgetfulness. For it is she who is the guardian of the soul.
Give her but a little time and she will sift out all the pleasure from thy pain, all the sweetness from thy sorrow, and all the love from thy life. Heart-aches are forgotten, tears lose their bitterness, and like a leaf of lavender in a store of linen, so does Memory make life sweet.
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