In the metallic mirrors of Arctic lakes we watched the wind-whipped clouds. Mute we knelt in the ice-temples of Silence, and where the glaciers shatter the rainbows we renewed our promises.
Wet sat at the universal banquet, and drank deep of Beauty. Cheek pressed to cheek, arms interlaced, we sighed in the consecrated throes of its reproduction, and in the imagery of Art we lisped Creation's lessons.
From height to height and depth to depth. Lagging in low canoes along the black waters of silent swamps—life-left—seeing the far-off blue of sky and hope between the warning points of cypress spires. Across the stretch of yellow sands, seeking her riddle of the Sphinx, and asking from the Runic records of one dead faith, and the sand-buried temples of another, the aim of the True.
Or clouds or rocks or winds or waves, the mutable or the unchangeable was in turn the theme of our reproductive praise. There were transfigurations on the mountain tops, where the spirit of the universe wore shining garbs and hailed us, their Interpreters. From every wave stretched Undine arms to greet us, and tongues of flame taught us the glories of the element.
Sometimes in giddy pauses shone sad eyes—yet not reproachful on me; but if I sighed in answer to their shining, Aspiro dazzled in betwixt me and my memory, and bade me 'cease not striving,' while her white finger pointed farther onward. For our love-life was a striving, and life's best porcelain was like common clay for fashioning vessels for its use.
I gave up all to her, time, talent, ingenuity. Studying for her caprices and struggling for her pleasure. How fair she seemed, how worthy any effort! If only I might hope that I, at last, should wholly win her approbation and make our union indissoluble. Her radiant smiles, and lofty, loving words, were hard to win, but then, when won—! Who ever looked and spoke and smiled as did Aspiro?
There was neither rest nor dalliance on our way. Unrest lit meteors in the heaven of my mistress's eyes, and I lost, at length, the delusion that I should ever satisfy all her imperious exactions. Then I hoped to make but some one thought or deed quite worthy of her favor, even to the sacrifice of my life.
I strove my utmost in the Art we loved. The strife consumed the dross of daily, petty hopes and fears, which make the happiness of common lives, and left my soul a crucible receptive for refinement only; and Aspiro tempted me to new endeavors by glimpses of the court which Nature holds, wearing Dalmatian mantle and spray-bright crown, in realms forbidden mortals.
'I thought, for my sake,' she would say, sadly,'you had already done something better than you have.'
If my soul sickened then, my courage did not falter, nor did her incentive beauty lose any of its charm.