He turned again onto the road that had brought him to the schoolhouse and when it was out of sight he ached for it and pondered on its nature; what it was about that simple scene that had moved him so deeply. As he passed into the woods again and onto the pathway that would lead him home he realized that the schoolyard was somehow old to him. There was something in it, something about the angles and the air and the very bricks that was or had been somewhere in his distant memory and was now awakened. And he knew that from this day on there would be something about this new experience of this remembered scene that he would never quite forget. He knew that he would never capture the scene, the feeling, the air, the girl, but that memories of them would forever arise in his mind and would be the impetus for his poetry, the means of his poetry, the genius of his poetry from now on. In his poetry, no matter what he might write about, he would forever be aiming at capturing and expressing some taste of the scene he had just lived.