The poet answered:  “Yes.”

So they went together as far as the blue river over which there were the blue sky and the dark nut-trees.

“Behold your childhood,” said the angel.

The poet looked at the water and wept and said: 

“I no longer see the reflection of the beloved faces of my mother and father.  They used to sit on the bank.  They were calm, good, and happy.  I had on a white pinafore which was always getting dirty, and mamma cleaned it with her handkerchief.  Dear angel, tell me what has become of the reflections of their beloved faces?  I no longer see them.  I no longer see them.”

At that moment a cluster of wild nuts dropped from a hazel-tree and floated down the stream of water.

And the angel said to the poet: 

“The reflection of your father and mother went on with the stream of water like those nuts.  For everything obeys the current, substance as well as shadow.  The image of your beloved parents is merged in the water and what remains is called memory.  Recollect and pray.  And you will find the dearly loved images again.”

And as an azure kingfisher darted above the reeds, the poet cried: 

“Dear angel!  Do I not see the color of my mother’s eyes in the wings of that bird?”

And the divine spirit answered: 

“It is as you have said.  But look again.”

From the top of a tree where a turtle-dove had built her nest a downy white feather fell soaring and eddying to the water.

And the poet cried: 

“Dear angel!  Is not this white down, my mother’s gentle purity?”

And the divine spirit answered: 

“It is as you have said.”

A light breeze ruffled the water and made the leaves rustle.

The poet asked: 

“Is not that the grave sweet voice of my father?”

And the spirit answered: 

“It is as you have said.”

Then they walked along the road which left the grove and followed the river.  And soon under the glare of the sun the road became white, very white.  It was like the linen at Holy Communion.  To the right and left hidden springs tinkled like pious bells.  And the angel said: 

“Do you recognize this part of your life?”

“This is the day of my first communion,” answered the poet.  “I remember the church and the happy faces of my mother and grandmother.  I was happy and sad at the same time.  With what fervor I knelt!  Thrills ran through my hair.  That evening at family supper they kissed me and said:  ‘He was the most beautiful.’”

And in recalling this the poet burst into sobs.  And as he wept he became as beautiful as on the day of the blessed ceremony.  His tears flowed through his hands like holy water.

And they went on along the road.

The day waned a little.  The supple poplars swayed gently along the ditches.  At a distance one of them in the center of a field looked like a tall young girl.  The sky tinted it so delicately that it was pale and blue like the temple of a virgin.