DOI article:
Risley, Richard Voorhees: Forgetfulness
DOI Page / Citation link: https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.25499#0261
Forgetfulness
By R. V. Risley
Friend, the years to you have been Autumnal, and when the
war-horns of life are filled with dust you will not be
frightened at the silence. Do you still feel the want for remem-
brance, the horror of the future’s indifference ? Do the faded
figures experience has woven into the tapestry of your days still
keep a reality for you that makes you sad to leave them ? Do
you dread the cold dark and the changelessness of oblivion ?
For some lives the world is a waste of every-days that are all
accounted for by mean causes and are useless and without a
significant great end. And some lives are for ever haunted by
an unattainable triumph that is for ever a little beyond—and
beyond. But you have been interested in things as a sad, wise
man, and yet have heard no loud ambition calling. A nature
that realises sadness is never expressive, and its depths exist in
silence and hide away from men. So, your life has been on the
defensive, and in your isolation you have been mournfully un-
protected against dreams. Your instinct of knowledge allowed
you illusive consolations, and loneliness, the loneliness that dwells
upon the altitudes, the loneliness of a wise mind, interpreted man-
kind to you.
Hope is God’s jest and Memory His curse : but Indifference is
His
By R. V. Risley
Friend, the years to you have been Autumnal, and when the
war-horns of life are filled with dust you will not be
frightened at the silence. Do you still feel the want for remem-
brance, the horror of the future’s indifference ? Do the faded
figures experience has woven into the tapestry of your days still
keep a reality for you that makes you sad to leave them ? Do
you dread the cold dark and the changelessness of oblivion ?
For some lives the world is a waste of every-days that are all
accounted for by mean causes and are useless and without a
significant great end. And some lives are for ever haunted by
an unattainable triumph that is for ever a little beyond—and
beyond. But you have been interested in things as a sad, wise
man, and yet have heard no loud ambition calling. A nature
that realises sadness is never expressive, and its depths exist in
silence and hide away from men. So, your life has been on the
defensive, and in your isolation you have been mournfully un-
protected against dreams. Your instinct of knowledge allowed
you illusive consolations, and loneliness, the loneliness that dwells
upon the altitudes, the loneliness of a wise mind, interpreted man-
kind to you.
Hope is God’s jest and Memory His curse : but Indifference is
His