That she is the Lady of Lasses,
Breathe on and warm her and charm her there,
And into the dusk of her sleeping
Bring her soft melodies crooning where
Honeysuckle is creeping.
F. D. ASHBURN.
“Moon Magic”
He lifted his head. He was drowsy and the dim light created an atmosphere of restfulness. The rough wooden bench on which he sat lay against the wall and the hardness of it, and the stone behind him, caused him to move uneasily in an attempt to adjust himself to a greater degree of comfort. He ceased to wonder why he stayed. It was an old church seldom visited by tourists, perhaps because there was little of beauty about its grey walls and ancient altar-stones. True, it had its tradition and history, but little had occurred in this out-of-the-way corner of England to cause the traveller to turn his steps thither. Moss grew within the crevices, while the cold sides of a dismembered tomb, lying open to the fading sunlight through a ruined corner, was the chapel of a horde of flowers that climbed up and about it in long trailing wreaths.
Another corner, on the far side, contained the hideously modern statue of a saint who stood with a finger warningly upraised, his gaze upon one sandalled foot which stood revealed from beneath the painted cassock. A sign beside him besought the curious to burn a candle; but there were no candles and the saint himself seemed to have fallen on hard days: his color had faded and his nose was broken.
Through the one-time windows the evening sun was slipping away beneath a rose and gold cloak, and the blue of the hills was dark against the paler blue of the sky. The mists from below crept up slowly, like white shepherds driving their sheep. It became thicker, after a little, and darker; the saint in his corner became a dim misshape, and, when the man raised his head again, it was nearly dark. He sprang to his feet with an exclamation and crossed towards the door, but he could not see his way and he felt around the wall until he came to the tomb, where he paused for a moment to consider.