“She was hurt to find life made up of so many little things. At
first she believed most faithfully that they had a deeper meaning and a
coherent larger purpose; but after a while she saw to her dismay that
the deeper and larger things were merely shadows cast by the small.
So
she buried the whole great treasure of winged dreams and iridescent
shades under an oak-tree in the farthest corner of her heart, and
planted a bush of wild roses over it. A small grave of dreams.
Secretly
and silently she buried them, a little ashamed, as a burglar might be
who had long pursued some gleaming ruby necklace, and, having by
infinite stealth and risk obtained it, found that it was red glass.”
―
Barbara Newhall Follett,
Lost Island
