a little cloud

he turned often from his tiresome writing to gaze out of the office window... he watched the scene and thought of life; and (as always happened when he thought of life) he became sad. a gentle melancholy took possession of him. he felt how useless it was to struggle against fortune, this being the burden of wisdom which the ages had bequeathed to him.
he remembered the books of poetry upon his shelves at home... at times, he repeated lines to himself and this consoled him... could he write something original? he was not sure what idea he wished to express, but the thought that a poetic moment had touched him took life within him like an infant hope. he stepped onward...