curtains, and the hushed garden and the sleeping house will bid me keep
silence, but I shall cry a great cry up to the morning star, and say,
"No, I will not keep silence. Mine is the voice she listens for in her
sleep. She will wake again for no voice but mine. Dear one, awake, the
morning of all mornings has come!"'

As I write, the moon looks down at me like a Madonna from the great
canvas of the sky. She seems beautiful with the beauty of all the eyes
that have looked up at her, sad with all the tears of all those eyes;
like a silver bowl brimming with the tears of dead lovers she seems.
Yes, there are seaports in the moon; there are ships to take us there.




THE END




Most of the foregoing essays have made a first appearance either in
_The Yellow Book_, _The Nineteenth Century_, _The Cosmopolitan_, _The
Westminster Gazette_, or _The Realm_, to the editors of which the writer
is indebted for kind permission to reprint.