Weigh me the weight of the fire,
Or measure me the blast of the wind,
Or call me again the day that is past.
II Esdras IV:5 

The day is done, and yet we linger here at the window of the private
office, alone, in the early evening.  Street sounds come surging up to us -
the hoarse Voice of the City - a confused blur of noise - clanging
trolley-cars, rumbling wagons, and familiar cries - all the varied
commotion of the home-going hour when the city's buildings are pouring
forth their human tide of laborers into the clogged arteries. 

We lean against the window-frame, looking across and beyond the myriad
roofs, and listening.  The world-weariness has touched our temples with
gray, and the heaviness of the day's concerns and tumult presses in,
presses in .  .  .  .  presses in .  .  .  . 

Yet as we look into the gentle twilight, the throbbing street below
slowly changes to a winding country road .  .  .  .  the tall buildings fade
in the sunset glow until they become only huge elm-trees overtopping a