In the metallic mirrors of Arctic lakes we watched the wind-whipped
clouds. Mute we knelt in the ice-temples of Silence, and where the
glaciers shatter the rainbows we renewed our promises.

Wet sat at the universal banquet, and drank deep of Beauty. Cheek
pressed to cheek, arms interlaced, we sighed in the consecrated throes
of its reproduction, and in the imagery of Art we lisped Creation's
lessons.

From height to height and depth to depth. Lagging in low canoes along
the black waters of silent swamps--life-left--seeing the far-off blue of
sky and hope between the warning points of cypress spires. Across the
stretch of yellow sands, seeking her riddle of the Sphinx, and asking
from the Runic records of one dead faith, and the sand-buried temples of
another, the aim of the True.

Or clouds or rocks or winds or waves, the mutable or the unchangeable
was in turn the theme of our reproductive praise. There were
transfigurations on the mountain tops, where the spirit of the universe
wore shining garbs and hailed us, their Interpreters. From every wave
stretched Undine arms to greet us, and tongues of flame taught us the
glories of the element.

Sometimes in giddy pauses shone sad eyes--yet not reproachful on me; but
if I sighed in answer to their shining, Aspiro dazzled in betwixt me and
my memory, and bade me 'cease not striving,' while her white finger
pointed farther onward. For our love-life was a striving, and life's
best porcelain was like common clay for fashioning vessels for its use.