2 4 o PROSERPINE'S MESSAGE 

 nightingale is so joyous, so essentially pure 

 spirit, that the listening heart feels an 

 emotion beyond that of earthly life. It is 

 passion more chaste than any Hellenic ideal 

 it is the voice of the wind, the meaning of 

 the green leaf, the purpose of the seed, the 

 secret of the star. But now as I listen the 

 wistful song, only a little less perfect than 

 Philomelas own, brings poignantly the present 

 before me. However I would dream, it is 

 now October; I can read The Pageant of 

 Summer during the dreariness of autumn's 

 chill and winter's murk ; but it is not the 

 same. Change is bitter to me, whether of 

 falling leaf or friendship. Leaves must fall, 

 but friends can be steadfast; yet everywhere 

 is bitter change. For many days now the 

 voice has run through the grape-frosty 

 air; always the voice, but never sight of the 

 singer. For hours and days I have sought 

 to find the singing bird, but in vain, in vain. 

 There is genius in the song a hymn to the 

 life-giving sun, to the light. Somewhere 



