THE SPLENDOR OF THE MOON
By this key which rids me of the world, opening to my blindness a muffled door; by this irresistible drifting away, by the mysterious sweetness which animates me and the deep response of my own heart to a soft explosion of mysterious sounds, I realize that I am asleep, and I awaken.
I had left my four windows open to the dark and somber night; and now, going out on the verandah, I see all the depth of space filled with thy light, oh sun of dreams! Far from disturbing sleep, this fire rising from the midst of darkness creates it, overpowering my senses more profoundly. But not in vain, like a priest awakened for his midnight mass, have I come from my bed to survey this mysterious mirror. The light of the sun is a force of life and of creation, and our vision partakes of its energy; but the splendor of the moon is like thought meditating upon itself. I contemplate her alone, lost to sound and heat; and all creation paints itself black beneath her brilliant expanse.
What solemn orgies! Long before the morning, I contemplate the image of the world. And already yonder great tree has flowered. Straight and alone, like an immense white lilac; bride of the night, it trembles all dripping with light. Oh star of after-midnight! Not the pole-star at the dizzy zenith, nor the red fire of the Bull, nor that planet which is revealed by a moving leaf, clear topaz in the heart of yonder dark tree,—none of these do I choose as queen, but high above them that farthest star lost in infinite light, that my eye acclaims in accord with my heart, and recognizes only to see it disappear.