"Let us close these books for to-night," I said. "The air is oppressive; and those sweet stars seem to chide us for preferring the inspiration of other things to theirs."
He smiled, drew a meerschaum from his pocket, and began to smoke. I pushed the table aside that I might seat myself more fully in the window.
"There is a line in one of Keats's poems—'Hyperion,'" I said.
"I know it," he interrupted. "A noble poem."
"Noble, indeed. There is a line in that poem which I do not think I ever thoroughly understood until now. I refer to the line in which he speaks of
—'tall oaks, branch-charmed by the earnest stars.'
Look at those round, moony orbs, tremulous like tears wept by the gods; the trees yonder seem spell-bound beneath them."
"Truly," he answered.
"Surely theirs is a magical repose: a deeper calm than that of sleep. Oh, I can forgive much to the superstition of astrology. Those planets deserve to be influences if they are not. The malignant heart would of course make their shine sinister; but a generous nature must deem those clear rays benignant. I do. But it is the common effect of Beauty on me. I warm, I dilate in her presence. She is a glorious spirit."