And in the whole crystalline hollow, gleaming and
flowing with delight, yet waiting for more, the Psyche was the
only lonely life bearing thing--the one cloudy germ spot afloat
in the bosom of the great roc egg of sea and sky, whose sheltering
nest was the universe with its walls of flame.
Florimel woke, rose, went on deck, and for a moment was fresh born.
It was a forescent--even this could not be called a foretaste,
of the kingdom of heaven; but Florimel never thought of the kingdom
of heaven, the ideal of her own existence. She could however half
appreciate this earthly outbreak of its glory, this incarnation of
truth invisible. Round her, like a thousand doves, clamoured with
greeting wings the joyous sea wind. Up came a thousand dancing
billows, to shout their good morning. Like a petted animal, importunate
for play, the breeze tossed her hair and dragged at her fluttering
garments, then rushed in the Psyche's sails, swelled them yet
deeper, and sent her dancing over the dancers. The sun peered up
like a mother waking and looking out on her frolicking children.
Black shadows fell from sail to sail, slipping and shifting, and
one long shadow of the Psyche herself shot over the world to the
very gates of the west, but held her not, for she danced and leaned
and flew as if she had but just begun her corantolavolta fresh
with the morning, and had not been dancing all the livelong night
over the same floor.
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