The golden ladders from the Milky Way were all let down. They
climbed up silvery ropes into the Moon....
'It's not my own idea,' he said; 'I'm convinced of that. It's all
flocked into me from some other mind that thought it long ago, but
could not write it, perhaps. No thought is lost, you see--never can be
lost. Like this, somehow, I feel it:--
Now sinks to sleep the clamour of the day,
And, million-footed, from the Milky Way,
Falls shyly on my heart the world's lost Thought--
Shower of primrose dust the stars have taught
To haunt each sleeping mind,
Till it may find
A garden in some eager, passionate brain
That, rich in loving-kindness as in pain,
Shall harvest it, then scatter forth again
It's garnered loveliness from heaven caught.
Oh, every yearning thought that holds a tear,
Yet finds no mission,
And lies untold,
Waits, guarded in that labyrinth of gold,--
To reappear
Upon some perfect night,
Deathless--not old--
But sweet with time and distance,
And clothed as in a vision
Of starry brilliance
For the world's delight.'
In the pauses, from time to time, they heard the distant thunder of
the Areuse as it churned and tumbled over the Val de Travers boulders.
The Colombier bells, as the hours passed, strung the sentences
together; moonlight wove in and out of every adventure as they
listened; stars threaded little chapters each to each with their
eternal golden fastenings.
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