So by now, the gloom cannot be beared. It's unbearable, this unbearable gloom. Beared. "Christ, you look like you been beared." What would that mean? It would mean you look like hell. But we, shufflers through the gloom, rain-logged, backs bowed, don't look like hell. We look like Limbo, we look lost. And we have lost things. Our patience, our lust for life, our good nature. We've lost our good nature because we've lost our Good Nature. The sky weeps, the wind moans. This has been the long winter, the winters of the Northwest, cold, but not freezing, and wet, without snow.
We are exiting spring, but our hearts have slept through it. I can't see summer through the sheets of rain. It's up ahead! What but of it? Didn't we hope the same for spring? Spring hopes eternal, waits in vain, in rain.
But the summer must come. The gloom can no longer be beared! Beared? No, wait, it's borne, not beared! The gloom cannot be borne!
Hurry up, summer, true summer!
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