Centuries passed. Unchanged, the star, clear and large, beamed on as it had done for centuries. The atmosphere shone with a red rosy hue, fresh as roses, flaming as blood.
Where there had once been a little street with the remains of an old temple, now stood a convent; a grave was dug in the garden, for a young nun had died, and she was to be lowered in the earth at this early hour of the morning. The spade struck against a stone which appeared of a dazzling whiteness—the white marble came forth—it rounded into a shoulder;—they used the spade with care, and a female head became visible—butterfly wings. They raised from the grave, in which the young nun was to be laid on this rosy morning, a gloriously beautiful Psyche-form, chiseled from white marble.
"How magnificent! How perfect a master work!" they said. "Who can the artist be?" He was unknown. None knew him, save the clear star, which had been beaming for centuries; it knew the course of his earthly life, his trials, his failings; it knew that he was: "but a man!" But he was dead, dispersed as dust must and shall be; but the result of his best efforts, the glory which pointed out the divine within him, the Psyche, which never dies, which surpasses in brightness, all earthly renown, this remained, was seen, acknowledged, admired and beloved.
The clear morning star in the rosy tinted sky, cast its most radiant beams upon the Psyche, and upon the smile of happiness about the mouth and eyes of the admiring ones, who beheld the soul, chiseled in the marble block.
That which is earthly passes away, and is forgotten; only the star in the infinite knows of it. That which is heavenly surpasses renown; for renown, fame and earthly glory die away, but—the Psyche lives forever!