Lys.
423
thine the domain of inspiration and achievement,—the
larger heroisms, the vaster labors that endure, the higher
knowledge, and all the witchcrafts of science ! . . .
But in each one of us there lives a mysterious Some-
thing which is Self, yet also infinitely more than Self,—
incomprehensibly multiple,—the complex total of sensa-
tions, impulses, timidities belonging to the unknown past.
And the lips of the little stranger from the tropics have
become all white, because that Something within her,—
ghostly bequest from generations who loved the light
and rest and wondrous color of a more radiant world,—
now shrinks all back about her girl's heart with fear of
this pale grim North. . . . And lo .'—opening mile-wide
in dream-grey majesty before us,—reaching away, through
measureless mazes of masting, into remotenesses all va-
por-veiled,—the mighty perspective of New York har-
bor ! . . .
Thou knowest it not, this gloom about us, little maid-
en ;—'tis only a magical dusk we are entering,—only that
mystic dimness in which miracles must be wrought ! . . .
See the marvellous shapes uprising,—the immensities,
the astonishments ! And other greater wonders thou
wilt behold in a little while, when we shall have become
lost to each other forever in the surging of the City's
million-hearted life ! . . . 'Tis all shadow here, thou say-
est ?—Ay, 'tis twdlight, verily, by contrast with that glory
out of which thou earnest, Lys—twilight only,—but the
Twilight of the Gods ! . . . Adiê, chè !—Bon-Dié kê béni
ou !.. .