“It is less rare than she. And she is already here.”
“Yes,” he goes on. “Dawn must come where She is.”
“Dawn,” I say, “will be wonderful up here.”
“It will be perpendicular.... Shot up like a flaming arrow from below.”
“And we will watch it fly up toward us, till it kindles the house!” Mildred claps her hands, letting her guitar lie in her lap.
“But,” Philip says, “what will become of the night?”
“The night is the black deep wine in which we have drunk.”
“Day will drink of it, and drink it up, and be drunk.” Mildred laughs at Philip.
“Day will dance,” says Philip, “on the mountain top.”
“Mildred,” I turn to her, “you ought to know. For you are like the day standing upon the tip of the night, and peering down on us.”