The Road to Dumbiedykes 



early and the later rains is heard far in 

 the distant forest depths. 



They say that only mountaineers 

 transplanted from their accustomed 

 heights to wear out their lives upon the 

 dead levels of the plain ever really die 

 of Heimweh. I am sitting later than 

 is customary before the smouldering 

 embers. The clock is on the stroke 

 of twelve. The glowing coals are 

 turning fast to ashes. Where in the 

 beginning there was life and light and 

 jollity, now all grows cold and gray 

 and cheerless. Happily, however, the 

 sweet oblivion of sleep impends, and 

 soon the morning light will break. 



