Far off a poor whip-poor-will plied his
notes incessantly. It was that silent time between 1 and 3.
The rare nocturnal scene, how soon it sooth'd and pacified me! Is
there not something about the moon, some relation or reminder, which
no poem or literature has yet caught? (In very old and primitive
ballads I have come across lines or asides that suggest it.) After a
while the clouds mostly clear'd, and as the moon swam on, she carried,
shimmering and shifting, delicate color-effects of pellucid green and
tawny vapor. Let me conclude this part with an extract, (some writer
in the "Tribune," May 16, 1878):
No one ever gets tired of the moon. Goddess that she is by dower of
her eternal beauty, she is a true woman by her tact--knows the charm
of being seldom seen, of coming by surprise and staying but a little
while; never wears the same dress two nights running, nor all night
the same way; commends herself to the matter-of-fact people by her
usefulness, and makes her uselessness adored by poets, artists, and
all lovers in all lands; lends herself to every symbolism and to
every emblem; is Diana's bow and Venus's mirror and Mary's throne;
is a sickle, a scarf, an eyebrow, his face or her face, and look'd
at by her or by him; is the madman's hell, the poet's heaven, the
baby's toy, the philosopher's study; and while her admirers follow
her footsteps, and hang on her lovely looks, she knows how to keep
her woman's secret--her other side--unguess'd and unguessable.
Pages:
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209