The shadow has all intricacies of perspective simply translated into line and intersecting curve, and pictorially presented to the eyes, not to the mind.  The shadow knows nothing except its flat designs.  It is single; it draws a decoration that was never seen before, and will never be seen again, and that, untouched, varies with the journey of the sun, shifts the interrelation of a score of delicate lines at the mere passing of time, though all the room be motionless.  Why will design insist upon its importunate immortality?  Wiser is the drama, and wiser the dance, that do not pause upon an attitude.  But these walk with passion or pleasure, while the shadow walks with the earth.  It alters as the hours wheel.

Moreover, while the habit of your sunward thoughts is still flowing southward, after the winter and the spring, it surprises you in the sudden gleam of a north-westering sun.  It decks a new wall; it is shed by a late sunset through a window unvisited for a year past; it betrays the flitting of the sun into unwonted skies—­a sun that takes the midsummer world in the rear, and shows his head at a sally-porte, and is about to alight on an unused horizon.  So does the grey drawing, with which you have allowed the sun and your pot of rushes to adorn your room, play the stealthy game of the year.

You need not stint yourself of shadows, for an occasion.  It needs but four candles to make a hanging Oriental bell play the most buoyant jugglery overhead.  Two lamps make of one palm-branch a symmetrical countercharge of shadows, and here two palm-branches close with one another in shadow, their arches flowing together, and their paler greys darkening.  It is hard to believe that there are many to prefer a “repeating pattern.”

It must be granted to them that a grey day robs of their decoration the walls that should be sprinkled with shadows.  Let, then, a plaque or a picture be kept for hanging on shadowless clays.  To dress a room once for all, and to give it no more heed, is to neglect the units of the days.

Shadows within doors are yet only messages from that world of shadows which is the landscape of sunshine.  Facing a May sun you see little except an infinite number of shadows.  Atoms of shadow—­be the day bright enough—­compose the very air through which you see the light.  The trees show you a shadow for every leaf, and the poplars are sprinkled upon the shining sky with little shadows that look translucent.  The liveliness of every shadow is that some light is reflected into it; shade and shine have been entangled as though by some wild wind through their million molecules.

The coolness and the dark of night are interlocked with the unclouded sun.  Turn sunward from the north, and shadows come to life, and are themselves the life, the action, and the transparence of their day.