Rest—what an OCEANIC word! I have been thinking of this unfathomable, unpenetrable word with mingled longing, and wonder, and even awe.
What depths are in it, what infinite spaces, what vast compassionate sky, what tenderness of oblivion, what husht awakenings, what quiet sinkings and fadings into peace.
Waking early, I took the word as one might take a carrier-dove and loosed it into the cloudy suspense of the stilled mind—and it rose again and again in symbolic cloud-thought, now as an infinite green forest murmurous with a hidden wind, now in some other guise and once as Ecstasy herself, listening.
Dear soft, sweet breath of the hills,
Good-night!
“... a change
from dream of Beauty, to
Beauty.”
F. M.
Printed by R. & R. Clark, Limited, Edinburgh.
SOME PRESS NOTICES
“Not beauty alone, but that element of strangeness in beauty which Mr. Pater rightly discerned as the inmost spirit of romantic art—it is this which gives to Miss Macleod’s work its peculiar æsthetic charm.”—Mr. Ashcroft Noble.