On that New Year’s morning when I drew up the blind it was still nearly dark, but for the faintest pink flush glancing out there on the horizon of black water.  The far shore of the river’s mouth was just soft dusk; and the dim trees below me were in perfect stillness.  There was no lap of water.  And then—­I saw her, drifting in on the tide-the little ship, passaging below me, a happy ghost.  Like no thing of this world she came, ending her flight, with sail-wings closing and her glowing lantern eyes.  There was I know not what of stealthy joy about her thus creeping in to the unexpecting land.  And I wished she would never pass, but go on gliding by down there for ever with her dark ropes, and her bright lanterns, and her mysterious felicity, so that I might have for ever in my heart the blessed feeling she brought me, coming like this out of that great mystery the sea.  If only she need not change to solidity, but ever be this visitor from the unknown, this sacred bird, telling with her half-seen, trailing-down plume—­sails the story of uncharted wonder.  If only I might go on trembling, as I was, with the rapture of all I did not know and could not see, yet felt pressing against me and touching my face with its lips!  To think of her at anchor in cold light was like flinging-to a door in the face of happiness.  And just then she struck her bell; the faint silvery far-down sound fled away before her, and to every side, out into the utter hush, to discover echo.  But nothing answered, as if fearing to break the spell of her coming, to brush with reality the dark sea dew from her sail-wings.  But within me, in response, there began the song of all unknown things; the song so tenuous, so ecstatic, that seems to sweep and quiver across such thin golden strings, and like an eager dream dies too soon.  The song of the secret-knowing wind that has peered through so great forests and over such wild sea; blown on so many faces, and in the jungles of the grass the song of all that the wind has seen and felt.  The song of lives that I should never live; of the loves that I should never love singlng to me as though I should!  And suddenly I felt that I could not bear my little ship of dreams to grow hard and grey, her bright lanterns drowned in the cold light, her dark ropes spidery and taut, her sea-wan sails all furled, and she no more en chanted; and turning away I let fall the curtain.  II

Then what happens to the moon?  She, who, shy and veiled, slips out before dusk to take the air of heaven, wandering timidly among the columned clouds, and fugitive from the staring of the sun; she, who, when dusk has come, rules the sentient night with such chaste and icy spell—­whither and how does she retreat?