(5)they spread their garments, they rose up and the wind rose andthe waves rose and through the house there lifted itself onesullen wave of doom which curled and crashed and the wholeearth seemed ruining and washing away in water.IIIBut what after all, is one night? A short space,especially when the darkness dims so soon, and so soon a birdsings, a cock crows, aor a faint green quickens, like a turningleaf, in the hollow of the wave. Night, however, succeeds tonight. The winter holds a pack of them in store and deals themequally, evenly, with indefatigable fingers. They lengthen;they darken. Some of them hold aloft clear plantets, plates ofbrightness. The autumn tress, ravaged as they are, take on theflash of tattered flags kindling in the gloom of cool cathedralcaves where gold letters and marble pages describe death inbattle and how bones far away bleach and burn in Indian sands.The autumn trees gleam in the yellow moonlight, in the light ofharvest moons, the light which mellows the energy of labour, andsmooths the stubble, and brings the wave lapping blue to the beach.It seemed now as if, touched by human penitence and all itstoil, divine goodness had drawn the curtain and displayed behindit, single, distinct, the hare erect, the wave falling, theboat rocking, which, did we deserve them should be ours always.But alas - divine goodness, twitching the cord, draws the curtain;it does not please him; he covers his treasures in a drench of
