I hid my face in my hands. The twitter of the young birds going to rest, and their rustling among the trees, disturbed the still evening-air⁠—the crickets chirped⁠—the aziolo cooed at intervals. My thoughts had been of death⁠—these sounds spoke to me of life. I lifted up my eyes⁠—a bat wheeled round⁠—the sun had sunk behind the jagged line of mountains, and the paly, crescent moon was visible, silver white, amidst the orange sunset, and accompanied by one bright star, prolonged thus the twilight. A herd of cattle passed along in the dell below, untended, towards their watering place⁠—the grass was rustled by a gentle breeze, and the olive-woods, mellowed into soft masses by the moonlight, contrasted their sea-green with the dark chestnut foliage. Yes, this is the earth; there is no change⁠—no ruin⁠—no rent made in her verdurous expanse; she continues to wheel round and round, with alternate night and day, through the sky, though man is not her adorner or inhabitant. Why could I not forget myself like one of those animals, and no longer suffer the wild tumult of misery that I endure? Yet, ah! what a deadly breach yawns between their state and mine! Have not they companions?