“Take me, then,” he said to the angel, “upon this great journey to Heaven.”
The spirit pointed out a bored-looking man quite near the throne.
“But he is in Heaven,” protested the mortal.
“Even so, but he does not know it,” replied the angel.
“It is the brightness of God!” exclaimed the moth, beholding the candle.
“But it will scorch you worse than Hell’s fire,” warned a friendly insect.
“What matter that?” shouted the moth. “It is the brightness of God!”
Then it flew into the flame and was shrivelled.
“I am tired of failing!” said the Artist, and he ripped up the picture with his penknife.
“Now he will remember my love!” thought the woman, and she smiled. But when the Artist saw the smile on her face, he took his brushes and made a picture of it, and the love of the woman was forgotten.
Against the dark glass shone like a flower the mouth of his beloved. But in vain he pressed lips of fire upon the panes--in vain!
“Then, since Love may not melt,” cried he, “shatter, O Death!”
In the field of Time, at the end of the path of daisies, grow flaming poppies, taking the eye more readily than the flowers of gold and white.
But a man, looking at some he had plucked to wear, discovered (formed by the inside shape and hue of the petals) a black cross at the bottom of every scarlet cup, and cast them from him.
“Is not this the mountain of blue grass?” asked the stranger. “Why is the grass as green as in our common meadows?”
“It was never any other colour,” said the native.
“It looked blue from afar,” protested the traveller, “and I have journeyed a long and difficult way to find it.”
“You had better have stayed at home,” answered the native.
“No,” returned the stranger, with a sad smile, “I had better have come, but now I will go home. The grass there has become blue.”
“What is that lovely thing you have in your heart? Why do you not sing of it?” asked the Muse.
“I have not yet lost it,” answered the Poet.
The lean dagger had gone into the Poet’s heart.
Shuddering, he plucked it free, lest he should die. And then--by magic--it became in his hand a shining sword fit to smite down the sorrow of the world.
Why has the Earth taken on a new significance?
Why is the smoking mist now white music, and the world’s architecture more wonderful than a fine cathedral?
