He quoted in a low voice the lines he meant. It was, for once, the time,
the place, and the setting all together. The words floated out across
the lawn towards the wall of blue darkness where the big Forest swept
the little garden with its league-long curve that was like the
shore-line of a sea. A wave of distant sound that was like surf
accompanied his voice, as though the wind was fain to listen too:

Not to the staring Day,
For all the importunate questionings he pursues
In his big, violent voice,
Shall those mild things of bulk and multitude,
The trees--God's sentinels ...
Yield of their huge, unutterable selves
But at the word
Of the ancient, sacerdotal Night,
Night of many secrets, whose effect--
Transfiguring, hierophantic, dread--
Themselves alone may fully apprehend,
They tremble and are changed:
In each the uncouth, individual soul
Looms forth and glooms
Essential, and, their bodily presences
Touched with inordinate significance,
Wearing the darkness like a livery
Of some mysterious and tremendous guild,
They brood--they menace--they appall.

The voice of Mrs. Bittacy presently broke the silence that followed.