I shall get out a poem one of these days--when the
harrow rests. And that will be its name: Rest Harrow."
He broke out after a pause-"Her beauty! What is it to the purpose to put
its semblance into words? Its significance is the heart of the matter. We
see the earth as hill and valley, pasture and cloud, sky and sea. Really
it is nothing of the kind, but infinitely more. It is tireless energy,
yearning, force, profusion, terror, immutability in variety. What are
words to such a power? It is to _that_ I stretch out my arms. I must lie
folded in that immensity, drown and sink in it, till it and I are one. I
must be resumed into the divine energy whose appearance is but a broken
hint of it. So it is with Her: not what she appears, but what she stands
for is the miracle. Her beauty is not in dimple and curve, though her
breasts are softer than the snowy hills, and the liquor of her mouth
sweeter than honey of limes. If I lay on the floor of the Aegean and
looked up to the sun I should not see such blue as glimmers in her eyes.
But these are figures, halting symbols. Her form, her glow, her eager,
lovely breath are her soul put into speech for us to read. You might say
that her nobility was that of the Jungfrau on a night of stars.
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