Who can recall the spoken word, and who can set a limit on its echoes?
It is not so with most women, but here and there may be found a nature where it is so.

Spirits like this poor girl's are too deep, and partake too much of a divine immutability, to shift and suit themselves to the changing circumstances of a fickle world.

They have no middle course; they cannot halt half-way; they set all their fortune on a throw.

And when the throw is lost their hearts are broken, and their happiness passes away like a swallow.
For in such a nature love rises like the wind on the quiet breast of some far sea.

None can say whence it comes or whither it blows; but there it is, lashing the waters to a storm, so that they roll in thunder all the long day through, throwing their white arms on high, as they clasp at the evasive air, till the darkness that is death comes down and covers them.
What is the interpretation of it?
Why does the great wind stir the deep waters?
It does but ripple the shallow pool as it passes, for shallowness can but ripple and throw up shadows.