“The quiet of dark despair,” she said. “Happy! I am the saddest thing in Heaven.”
“I am sorry,” said the Deity of Light; “what shall I do?”
“Give me back my lover.”
“Nay, child, that I cannot do. He is banished for ever and ever by the decree of a Deity, that cannot be broken.”
“I knew it,” she said.
“Yet something I can do. Listen. On the seventh day of the seventh moon, I will summon the magpies together from the ends of the earth, and they shall be a bridge over the Bright River of Heaven, so that the Weaving Maiden shall lightly cross to the waiting Herd Boy on the farther shore.”
So it was. On the seventh day of the seventh moon came the magpies from far and near. And they spread their wings for a frail bridge. And the Weaving Maiden went over by the frail bridge. Her eyes were like stars, and her heart like a bird in her bosom. And the Herd Boy was there to meet her upon the farther shore.
And so it is still, oh, true lovers—upon the seventh day of the seventh moon these two keep their tryst. Only if the rain falls with thunder and cloud and hail, and the Bright River of Heaven is swollen and swift, the magpies cannot make a bridge for the Weaving Maiden. Alack, the dreary time!
Therefore, true lovers, pray the gods for fair weather.