It is almost uncanny to see
them. They are the flowers of darkness, white and wonderful
beyond belief.
Then their radiance becomes soiled and brown, they thaw, break, and
scatter and vanish away. Already the primroses are coming out, and the
almond is in bud. The winter is passing away. On the mountains the
fierce snow gleams apricot gold as evening approaches, golden, apricot,
but so bright that it is almost frightening. What can be so fiercely
gleaming when all is shadowy? It is something inhuman and unmitigated
between heaven and earth.
The heavens are strange and proud all the winter, their progress goes on
without reference to the dim earth. The dawns come white and
translucent, the lake is a moonstone in the dark hills, then across the
lake there stretches a vein of fire, then a whole, orange, flashing
track over the whiteness. There is the exquisite silent passage of the
day, and then at evening the afterglow, a huge incandescence of rose,
hanging above and gleaming, as if it were the presence of a host of
angels in rapture. It gleams like a rapturous chorus, then passes away,
and the stars appear, large and flashing.
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