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Leaning her bony breast on the hard thorn she crooned out
her forgiveness.
.Sunday May
 9th

3


Was it, then, that she had her consolations in moments of
illumination, when with the breeze in the west & the
clouds white in the sun she stood at her cottage door;
for what reason did there twine about the dirge this
incorrigible hope?, & how why, with no gift to
bestow & no gift to take, did she yet desire life, &
sing, as she dusted & leered [?]47 how Were there then
for Mrs. MacNab, trodden into the mud by civilisation,
a mat for kings & kaisers to walk on, moments of
illumination – at the washtub, say, with her children?
(Yet two of them at had been base-born, & three had48
deserted her) Some cleavage of the clouds there must have
been; some channel cut in the heart of obscurity through
which issued light enough to make her grin like that – looking
at herself in the long looking glass; & seeing there a
wisp of with her homy[?]49 forgive, tolerate, understand.
The crazed, the mystic, the visionary are possessed at
long intervals of comprehension, & find in them
some absolute good so that a lump of sugar more
or less matters nothing; they are warm in the frost &
have comforts in the desert.     But Mrs. MacNab was
not of these. She was not among the haters of life; not among the
skeleton lovers; not among those who voluntarily surrender
their, make abstract, & find in some s
reduce th mul the multiplicity of the world to
unity & its volume & conflict & anguish to one
voice piping clear & single sweet. Th Thus, when all the
mysti When the inspired & lofty minded, who had walked on

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