As I walked over my sand and barrenness in the Gray Dawn a poem ran continuously through my mind. It expressed to me in my gray condition an ideal life and death and ending. Every desire of my life melted away in the Gray Dawn except one good wish that my own life and death might be short and obscure and complete like them. The poem was this beautiful one of Charles Kingsley’s: “‘Oh, Mary, go and call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, Across the sands of Dee!’ The western wind was wild and dank with foam, And all alone went she. “The creeping tide came up along the sand, And o’er and o’er the sand, And round and round the sand, As far as eye could see; The blinding mist came up and hid the land-- And never home came she. “Oh, is it weed, or fish, or floating hair?-- A tress of golden hair, Of drowned maiden’s hair, Above the nets at sea. Was never salmon yet that shone so fair Among the stakes on Dee. “They rowed her in across the rolling foam, The cruel, crawling foam, The cruel, hungry foam, To her grave beside the sea; But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home Across the sands of Dee.” This is a poem perfect. And in the Gray Dawn it expresses to me a most desirable thing--a short, eventless life, a sudden ceasing, and a forgotten voice sometimes calling. This Mary, in the Gray Dawn, would wish nothing else. If the waters rolled over me now--over my short, eventless life--there would be the sudden ceasing,--and the anemone lady would hear my voice sometimes, and remember me--the anemone lady and one or two others. And after a short time even my pathetic, passionate voice would sound faint and be forgotten, and my world of sand and barrenness would know me and my weary little life-tragedy no more. And well for me, I say,--in the Gray Dawn. It is different--oh, very different--when the yellow bursts through the gray. And the yellow is with me all day long, and at sunset--the red, red line! Yet--oh, sweet Gray Dawn! March 5. Sometimes I am seized with nearer, vivider sensations of love for my one friend, the anemone lady. She is so dear--so beautiful! My love for her is a peculiar thing. It is not the ordinary woman-love. It is something that burns with a vivid fire of its own. The anemone lady is enshrined in a temple on the inside of my heart that shall always only be hers. She is my first love--my only dear one. The thought of her fills me with a multitude of feelings, passionate yet wonderfully tender,--with delight, with rare, undefined emotions, with a suggestion of tears.