By Virginia Woolf
LAZY and indifferent， shaking space easily from his wings，knowing his way， the heron passes over the church beneath thesky. White and distant， absorbed in itself， endlessly the sky coversand uncovers， moves and remains. A lake？ Blot the shores of itout！ A mountain？ Oh， perfect—the sun gold on its slopes. Downthat falls. Ferns then， or white feathers， for ever and ever—Desiring truth， awaiting it， laboriously distilling a fewwords， for ever desiring—（a cry starts to the left， another tothe right. Wheels strike divergently. Omnibuses conglomeratein conflict）—for ever desiring—（the clock asseverates withtwelve distinct strokes that it is midday； light sheds goldscales； children swarm）—for ever desiring truth. Red is thedome； coins hang on the trees； smoke trails from the chimneys；bark， shout， cry “Iron for sale”—and truth？
Radiating to a point men’s feet and women’s feet， blackor gold-encrusted—（This foggy weather—Sugar？ No， thankyou—The commonwealth of the future）—the firelight dartingand making the room red， save for the black figures and theirbright eyes， while outside a van discharges， Miss Thingummydrinks tea at her desk， and plate-glass preserves fur coats—Flaunted， leaf-light， drifting at corners， blown across thewheels， silver-splashed， home or not home， gathered， scattered，squandered in separate scales， swept up， down， torn， sunk，assembled—and truth？
Now to recollect by the fireside on the white square of marble.
From ivory depths words rising shed their blackness， blossomand penetrate. Fallen the book； in the flame， in the smoke， inthe momentary sparks—or now voyaging， the marble squarependant， minarets beneath and the Indian seas， while spacerushes blue and stars glint—truth？ content with closeness？
Lazy and indifferent the heron returns； the sky veils herstars； then bares them.