Who dwells in Nora-Bamma? Dreamers, hypochondriacs, somnambulists; who, from the cark and care of outer Mardi fleeing, in the poppy’s jaded odors, seek oblivion for the past, and ecstasies to come.
Open-eyed, they sleep and dream; on their roof-trees, grapes unheeded drop. In Nora-Bamma, whispers are as shouts; and at a zephyr’s breath, from the woodlands shake the leaves, as of humming-birds, a flight.
All this spake Braid-Beard, of the isle. How that none ere touched its strand, without rendering instant tribute of a nap; how that those who thither voyaged, in golden quest of golden gourds, fast dropped asleep, ere one was plucked; waking not till night; how that you must needs rub hard your eyes, would you wander through the isle; and how that silent specters would be met, haunting twilight groves, and dreamy meads; hither gliding, thither fading, end or purpose none.
True or false, so much for Mohi’s Nora Bamma.
But as we floated on, it looked the place described. We yawned, and yawned, as crews of vessels may; as in warm Indian seas, their winnowing sails all swoon, when by them glides some opium argosie.
CHAPTER LXXXVIII.
In A Calm, Hautia’s Heralds Approach
“How still!” cried Babbalanja. “This calm is like unto Oro’s everlasting serenity, and like unto man’s last despair.”
But now the silence was broken by a strange, distant, intermitted melody in the water.
Gazing over the side, we saw naught but a far-darting ray in its depths.
Then Yoomy, before buried in a reverie, burst forth with a verse, sudden as a jet from a Geyser.