There must be a truth involved in it, though we may but in
part lay hold of the meaning. Even the memories of past pain are
beautiful; and past delights, though beheld only through clefts
in the grey clouds of sorrow, are lovely as Fairy Land. But how
have I wandered into the deeper fairyland of the soul, while as
yet I only float towards the fairy palace of Fairy Land! The
moon, which is the lovelier memory or reflex of the down-gone
sun, the joyous day seen in the faint mirror of the brooding
night, had rapt me away.
I sat up in the boat. Gigantic forest trees were about me;
through which, like a silver snake, twisted and twined the great
river. The little waves, when I moved in the boat, heaved and
fell with a plash as of molten silver, breaking the image of the
moon into a thousand morsels, fusing again into one, as the
ripples of laughter die into the still face of joy. The sleeping
woods, in undefined massiveness; the water that flowed in its
sleep; and, above all, the enchantress moon, which had cast them
all, with her pale eye, into the charmed slumber, sank into my
soul, and I felt as if I had died in a dream, and should never
more awake.
From this I was partly aroused by a glimmering of white, that,
through the trees on the left, vaguely crossed my vision, as I
gazed upwards. But the trees again hid the object; and at the
moment, some strange melodious bird took up its song, and sang,
not an ordinary bird-song, with constant repetitions of the same
melody, but what sounded like a continuous strain, in which one
thought was expressed, deepening in intensity as evolved in
progress.
Pages:
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113