“ ‘It has the strangeness of the luring* West,
And of sad sea-horizons; beside thee
I am aware of other times and lands,
Of birth far back, of lives in many stars.
O beauty lone and like a candle dear
In this dark country of the world E
Thou art
My were, my early light, my music dying.'"
Hugh and Winsor remained silent while the young ice went on reading Mar$essa*Sr reply, her ntle refusal of the god and her proud acceptance the mortal. Finally they heard the last words:
“When she had spoken, Idas with one cry Held her, and there was silence; while the god In anger disappeared. Then slowly they, He looking downward, and she gazing up, Into the evening green wandered away.”
When the voice paused, the poem done, the two »ys walked slowly down the hall, down the steps, id out into the cool night air. Neither said a ord until they were half-way across the campus, hen Winsor spoke softly: “God! Was n’t that beautiful?’’ “Yes—beautiful.” Hugh’s voice
was
Hard y
ore than a whisper. “Beautiful. • • • lt 1, it makes me—kinda ashamed. “Me, too. Poker when we can have that. /erre awful fools, Hugh.” “Yes—awful fools.”
