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The
boat
seemed
stuffy
,
and
my
head
ached
;
so
I
thought
I
would
step
out
into
the
cool
night-air
.
I
slipped
on
what
clothes
I
could
find
about
--
some
of
my
own
,
and
some
of
George
's
and
Harris
's
--
and
crept
under
the
canvas
on
to
the
bank
.
It
was
a
glorious
night
.
The
moon
had
sunk
,
and
left
the
quiet
earth
alone
with
the
stars
.
It
seemed
as
if
,
in
the
silence
and
the
hush
,
while
we
her
children
slept
,
they
were
talking
with
her
,
their
sister
--
conversing
of
mighty
mysteries
in
voices
too
vast
and
deep
for
childish
human
ears
to
catch
the
sound
.
They
awe
us
,
these
strange
stars
,
so
cold
,
so
clear
.
We
are
as
children
whose
small
feet
have
strayed
into
some
dim-lit
temple
of
the
god
they
have
been
taught
to
worship
but
know
not
;
and
,
standing
where
the
echoing
dome
spans
the
long
vista
of
the
shadowy
light
,
glance
up
,
half
hoping
,
half
afraid
to
see
some
awful
vision
hovering
there
.
And
yet
it
seems
so
full
of
comfort
and
of
strength
,
the
night
.
In
its
great
presence
,
our
small
sorrows
creep
away
,
ashamed
.
The
day
has
been
so
full
of
fret
and
care
,
and
our
hearts
have
been
so
full
of
evil
and
of
bitter
thoughts
,
and
the
world
has
seemed
so
hard
and
wrong
to
us
.
Then
Night
,
like
some
great
loving
mother
,
gently
lays
her
hand
upon
our
fevered
head
,
and
turns
our
little
tear-stained
faces
up
to
hers
,
and
smiles
;
and
,
though
she
does
not
speak
,
we
know
what
she
would
say
,
and
lay
our
hot
flushed
cheek
against
her
bosom
,
and
the
pain
is
gone
.
Sometimes
,
our
pain
is
very
deep
and
real
,
and
we
stand
before
her
very
silent
,
because
there
is
no
language
for
our
pain
,
only
a
moan
.
Night
's
heart
is
full
of
pity
for
us
:
she
can
not
ease
our
aching
;
she
takes
our
hand
in
hers
,
and
the
little
world
grows
very
small
and
very
far
away
beneath
us
,
and
,
borne
on
her
dark
wings
,
we
pass
for
a
moment
into
a
mightier
Presence
than
her
own
,
and
in
the
wondrous
light
of
that
great
Presence
,
all
human
life
lies
like
a
book
before
us
,
and
we
know
that
Pain
and
Sorrow
are
but
the
angels
of
God
.
Only
those
who
have
worn
the
crown
of
suffering
can
look
upon
that
wondrous
light
;
and
they
,
when
they
return
,
may
not
speak
of
it
,
or
tell
the
mystery
they
know
.
Once
upon
a
time
,
through
a
strange
country
,
there
rode
some
goodly
knights
,
and
their
path
lay
by
a
deep
wood
,
where
tangled
briars
grew
very
thick
and
strong
,
and
tore
the
flesh
of
them
that
lost
their
way
therein
.
And
the
leaves
of
the
trees
that
grew
in
the
wood
were
very
dark
and
thick
,
so
that
no
ray
of
light
came
through
the
branches
to
lighten
the
gloom
and
sadness
.
And
,
as
they
passed
by
that
dark
wood
,
one
knight
of
those
that
rode
,
missing
his
comrades
,
wandered
far
away
,
and
returned
to
them
no
more
;
and
they
,
sorely
grieving
,
rode
on
without
him
,
mourning
him
as
one
dead
.
Now
,
when
they
reached
the
fair
castle
towards
which
they
had
been
journeying
,
they
stayed
there
many
days
,
and
made
merry
;
and
one
night
,
as
they
sat
in
cheerful
ease
around
the
logs
that
burned
in
the
great
hall
,
and
drank
a
loving
measure
,
there
came
the
comrade
they
had
lost
,
and
greeted
them
.
His
clothes
were
ragged
,
like
a
beggar
's
,
and
many
sad
wounds
were
on
his
sweet
flesh
,
but
upon
his
face
there
shone
a
great
radiance
of
deep
joy
.
