“That is a bitter thing for a verse to show,” I made answer, “and a bitter thing to have in my mind.” “Well, and aren’t you wise enough to prefer the bitter things to the sweet things?” said my friend Annabel Lee. “For every sweet thing that you have in your mind, it is yours to pay a mighty bitter price. Whereas the bitter things are valuable possessions. And if it is true about your friends, of course you wish to know it.” “No,” said I, “I don’t wish to know it.” “But, at least,” said my friend Annabel Lee, with a wonderful softening of her voice into something that was sincere and enchanting, “believe what I told you about it, for in that case you and I have that good gift--a bond of sympathy. For if I had friends, of that kind, they would look upon me as something with much to acquire, very sure. But don’t,” said my friend Annabel Lee, hastily, “consider the bond of sympathy a sweet thing--remember the mighty bitter price.” “I will believe what you said about the friends,” said I--“and it is bitter enough to purge my soul for a time. The bond of sympathy is not a sweet thing, anyway. I don’t expect to have to pay for it-- And it brings a feeling of restfulness.--” “A bond of sympathy,” said my friend Annabel Lee, “comes already paid for. It does very well. It is not sweet--it tastes more like a cigarette or an olive. “About the verse”--said my friend Annabel Lee. “Please let’s not talk about that any more,” said I. “Whatever you like,” said my friend Annabel Lee. And we talked of George Sand and her books. But, anyway, this was my bit of unripe verse: Yesterday my star went down in the deep shadows. It went lightly Like the rippling of water; And many tiny dear things went with it, and I watched them: I knew that my star would never rise again. Yesterday my star went down in the deep shadows. It went softly Like the half-lights of evening; And as it went my frantic thoughts pursued it without hoping: I knew that my star would never rise again. Yesterday my star went down in the deep shadows. It went tenderly Like my friend who loves me; But since it’s gone the way shows dark--my two eyes are tired watching: I know that my star will never rise again. XXII THE MESSAGE OF A TENDER SOUL “The message of a tender soul,” said my friend Annabel Lee, “is a thing that will go far, oh, so far, and lose nothing of itself. “When all things in the world are counted the beautiful things are in the greatest numbers. And when all the things in the world are counted the message of a tender soul counts greatly more than many. “A tender soul receives back no gratitude for its message, and looks for no gratitude, and does not know what gratitude means. And the tenderness of the message is all unmade and all unknown, but is felt for long, long years.