I walked among the olive trees and myrtles and tall strange poppies, and the night was clear, so clear, that I could see up and up, far up almost as far as God, and could discern the misty drapery of the angels along the nebulous empyrean—and the calm of the holy night-time shuddered with fitful ecstasy at the wailing passion of Sappho's lyre, and the strings her lute flashed ever and anon with flame at the touch of her slender magnetic fingers—and she lifted up her voice in song, a wild penetrating song of love and lust and bitter intense desire, and the sound thereof was as pure fire, having in it the bitterness of intense sweetness, like unto the sweet Lesbian wine a little salt to taste—and gradually with the sound of her passionate, star-tuned, heart-strung lute were mingled the far off tones of a sublime organ, causing to shiver and well-nigh shattering the cupola of heaven and the stable boundary of the horizon———and the tones of the organ grew stronger, and the sound of Sappho's lute strings waxed fainter, soothing themselves and lulling themselves to sleep as they became amalgamated in the glory of that holy hymn———And I looked onward, and afar off it was as though a veil were rent in sunder and a wondrous vision was revealed unto me———through the cleft sky veil I beheld the three mystic watchers———on the face of the first was an exceeding weariness and utter exhaustion, he was so faint that he seemed to waver betwixt living and dying and had fallen asleep desiring never to wake again———the next unto him, on whose shoulder his head leaned, was exceedingly fair to look upon a deep eternal sleep was shed upon his eyelids, and the glory of past things shone as a halo around his head, as though his works followed him past the boundary line of life and death———the third seemed too soft for man, too warm for woman, and the liquid depths of his eyes shone with the calm radiance of an infinite love———yet his face was the saddest of all———and I marvelled to hear the voice of Sappho cry pleadingly and shrill through the night air heavy with the strains of sublime music
—WATCHER WHAT OF THE NIGHT—
———and a voice answered as if from an infinite distance———‘Alas the night is not yet past, we wait in vain, seeing that we know not if ever the day shall break or the shadows flee away!———see two of my brethren have already fallen on sleep, yet I watch on although the remnant of hope is molten in mine heart and has utterly passed from me’———and the voice ceased and a lightening flash lit up this vision again with wonderful distinctness, and the voice said again
‘UNTIL THE DAY BREAK AND THE SHADOWS FLEE AWAY’
and the sky veil fell again, and I heard the sound of Sappho's lyre wailing through the stillness of the night———and lo I awoke