 | From the Hills of Dream |  |
146
The White Procession.
One by one the stars come forthOne by one the stars come forth—solemn eyes watching for ever the white procession move onward orderly where there is neither height, nor depth, nor beginning, nor end.
In the vast stellar space the moonglow wanes until it grows cold, white, ineffably remote. Only upon our little dusky earth, upon our restless span of waters, the light descends in a tender warmth.
Deep gladness to me, though but the creature of an hour, that I am on this little moonlit dusky earth. Too cold, too white, too ineffably remote the moonglow in these vast wastes of Infinity where, one by one, the constellations roam—solemn witnesses watching for ever the white procession move onward orderly where there is neither height, nor depth, nor beginning, nor end.
| From the Hills of Dream | |