The
flown kite is there with its seven pale worlds; it has adventured very
high and far to-night-with a company of others remoter still. . . .
This serenity of night! What could seem less likely ever more to move,
and change again to day? Surely now the world has found its long sleep;
and the pearly glimmer from the moon will last, and the precious silence
never again yield to clamour; the grape-bloom of this mystery never more
pale out into gold . . . .
And yet it is not so. The nightly miracle has passed. It is dawn. Faint
light has come. I am waiting for the first sound. The sky as yet is
like nothing but grey paper, with the shadows of wild geese passing. The
trees are phantoms. And then it comes--that first call of a bird,
startled at discovering day! Just one call--and now, here, there, on all
the trees, the sudden answers swelling, of that most sweet and careless
choir. Was irresponsibility ever so divine as this, of birds waking?
Then--saffron into the sky, and once more silence! What is it birds do
after the first Chorale? Think of their sins and business? Or just
sleep again? The trees are fast dropping unreality, and the cuckoos
begin calling. Colour is burning up in the flowers already; the dew
smells of them.
The miracle is ended, for the starling has begun its job; and the sun is
fretting those dark, busy wings with gold.
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