Infinite is the sadness in the things that no longer serve any use. In the attic of this house, whose inhabitants I have not known, lies the dress of a little girl and a doll, doomed to despair.
In front of the years-old loneliness of the things here, I feel the certainty that the iron-shod stick there, which once bit firmly into the earth of the green hills, would be just as happy if it were once again allowed to feel the cool freshness of moss as the summer hat, which now lies there dully illuminated by the poor light of a skylight, if it were once again allowed to see a summer sky.
But the things we lovingly preserve retain their gratitude for us and are always ready to offer us their souls.
From Francis Jammes, The Paradise of Animals, 1926 (translated from German first edition).