“They could not live away from the Sun and Moon,” he said. “Still, I wish I had never told the Sunbeam of her beauty; then she would be here now.”
When the Bullfinch heard of it she was quite pleased. “Now, at least,” she said, “we shall hear the end of the Moonbeam. I am heartily glad, for I was sick of her.”
“How much they must have loved each other!” said the Dove. “I am glad at least that they died together,” and she cooed sadly.
But through the Stone wherein the beams had sheltered, shot up bright, beautiful rays of light, silver and gold. They coloured it all over with every colour of the rainbow, and when the Sun or Moon warmed it with their light it became quite brilliant. So that the Stone, from being the ugliest thing in the whole forest, became the most beautiful.
Men found it and called it the Opal. But the Nightingale knew that it was the Sunbeam and Moonbeam who, in dying, had suffused the Stone with their mingled colours and light; and the Nightingale will never forget them, for every night he sings their story, and that is why his song is so sad.
In sapphire, emerald, amethyst, Sparkles the sea by the morning kissed; And the mist from the far-off valleys lie Gleaming like pearl in the tender sky; Soft shapes of cloud that melt and drift, With tints of opal that glow and shift. Celia Thaxter.
LOST: THE SUMMER
Where has the summer gone? She was here just a minute ago, With roses and daisies To whisper her praises—— And every one loved her so!