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Updated: May 5, 2025
Then each is dumb for a while, and life ebbs slowly, till some chance memory stirs among the embers, and a bright spark flickers for a moment in the dark. The candle dies at last, and smells, and mixes with the elements. And some say you and I will do the very same die and go out. Possibly! Just as you like! Have it your own way. It is even so with the Old Year in his last hours.
That is to say, the last half hour before bedtime, we draw in, shoulder to shoulder, around the last brands and embers of our hearth, which we prick up and brighten, and dispose for a few farewell flickers and glimmers. This is a grand time for discussion.
Was this then really love? this drifting through alternating dreams of shyness, tenderness, suspense, pierced at moments by tiny flashes of fear, as lightning flickers, far buried in softly shrouded depths of cloud? She had long periods of silent and absorbed dreaming, conscious only that she dreamed, but not of the dream itself.
The latter deadened the rattle of the streets. At intervals the distant elevated lumbered protestingly along, its grunts and screams muffled by the hot suspended ocean. She sat there plunged in the profoundest grief that can come to the human soul, for in all other agony hope flickers, however forlornly.
There are some who have it so strong and vigorous that it is a vision rather than a faith, a trust, deep and firm and settled, to which the present is but the fleeting shadow, and the unseen the eternal and only reality; but, alas! there are others in whom the light of faith burns feebly and flickers.
Among the smaller birds which do much good, but of which complaints are made because they eat some fruit and grain are the woodpeckers, including the flickers, cedar-birds, robins, cat-birds, thrashers, crows and blackbirds.
'How fair, how fresh were the roses ... The candle flickers and goes out.... Whose is that hoarse and hollow cough? Curled up, my old dog lies, shuddering at my feet, my only companion.... I'm cold ... I'm frozen ... and all of them are dead ... dead ... 'How fair, how fresh were the roses ... Sept. 1879. I was going from Hamburg to London in a small steamer.
To her the handmaiden spoke, pointing to the batrachians who stood, paws and forearms melted beneath the robes they had gathered. She took them and passed out more grotesque than ever, shattering into streaks of vacancies, reappearing with flickers of shining scale and yellow gems as the tattered pennants of invisibility fluttered about her.
The heat that had formerly pervaded his nature, and which was not yet extinct, was never of the kind that flashes and flickers in a blaze; but rather a deep red glow, as of iron in a furnace. Weight, solidity, firmness this was the expression of his repose, even in such decay as had crept untimely over him at the period of which I speak.
Ah, Dane, you cannot rekindle that fire. The whirl of the world scatters its ashes wide and far, like volcanic dust, to make beautiful crimson sunsets for a time and then to vanish. None the less are you a dedicated spirit, priest that you are of a dying faith. Your prayers are futile, your altars crumbling, and the light flickers and drops down into night.
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