arise, blind, dark, troubled.  Nature in them imagines herself into forgetfulness.  This rhythm repeats itself in man:  a moment of inspiration—­wise and clear, we determine; then we are seized with a great desire which impels us to action; the hero, the poet, the lover, all alike listen to the music of life, and then endeavour to express its meaning in word or deed; coming in contact with nature, its lethal influence drowses them; so baffled and forgetful, they wonder where the God is.  To these in some moment the old inspiration returns, the universe is as magical and sweet as ever, a new impulse is given, and so they revolve, perverting and using, each one in his own way, the cosmic rhythm.”

“Merodach, what you say seems truth, and leaving aside the cosmic rhythm, which I do not comprehend, define again for me the three states.”

“You cannot really understand the little apart from the great; but, applying this to your own case, you remember you had a strange experience, a God seemed to awaken within you.  This passed away; you halted a little while, full of strange longing, eager for the great; yet you looked without on the hither side of that first moment, and in this second period, which is interchange and transition, your longing drew to you those subtle material essences I spoke of, which, like vapour surround, dull and bewilder the mind with strange phantasies of form and sensation.  Every time we think with longing of any object, these essences flow to us out of the invisible spheres and steep us with the dew of matter:  then we forget the great, we sleep, we are dead or despondent as you are despondent.”

I sighed as I listened.  A watchfulness over momentary desires was the first step; I had thought of the tasks of the hero as leading upwards to the Gods, but this sleepless intensity of will working within itself demanded a still greater endurance.  I neared my destination; I paused and looked round; a sudden temptation assailed me; the world was fair enough to live in.  Why should I toil after the far-off glory?  Babylon seemed full of mystery, its temples and palaces steeped in the jewel glow and gloom of evening.  In far-up heights of misty magnificence the plates of gold on the temples rayed back the dying light:  in the deepening vault a starry sparkle began:  an immense hum arose from leagues of populous streets:  the scents of many gardens by the river came over me:  I was lulled by the splash of fountains.  Closer I heard voices and a voice I loved:  I listened as a song came

“Tell me, youthful lover, whether
        Love is joy or woe? 
Are they gay or sad together
        On that way who go?”

A voice answered back

“Radiant as a sunlit feather,
        Pure and proud they go;
With the lion look together
        Glad their faces show.”

My sadness departed; I would be among them shortly, and would walk and whisper amid those rich gardens where beautiful idleness was always dreaming.  Merodach looked at me.