The moon is shining.
I am cleaning up - throwing out old things.
A bit of my mother's hair, my little sister's doll and some rusty rose leaves - why do I keep these?
I do not need the bit of hair to revive the memory of my mother;
My little sister has grown up, married, and passed away;
And the girl who put the rose into my buttonhole has three children.
I see her now and then.
We laugh at our childhood love.
When I grew up I was to have been a flour miller.
I could see her coming into my office with one of our children.
We planned many things.
We were fifteen.
A flour miller - what a failure I have been! I am only an author of books.
I might have been a useful citizen.
The moon has gone behind the clouds.
I have put the hair, the doll, and the rose leaves back into the box.