Still beauty in the charm of still waters. It is a 

 Waters, matter of temperament, of the hour and occa- 

 sion also no doubt, whether one prefer those 

 where another dream-world, that of human 

 life, companions them in the ineffable suspense 

 of the ideal moment, the moment where the 

 superfluous recedes and silence and stillness 

 consummate the miraculous vision. Those 

 moonlit lagoons of Venice, which become 

 scintillating floods of silver or lakes of delicate 

 gold, where the pole-moored sandolo thrusts 

 a black wedge of shadow into the motionless 

 drift, while an obscure figure at the prow idly 

 thrums a mandolin or hums drowsily a can- 

 zonnetto $ amove ; those twilit canals where old 

 palaces lean and look upon their ancient beauty 

 stilled and perfected in sleep ; how unforget- 

 table they are, how they thrill even in remem- 

 brance. In the cities of Holland, how at one 

 are the old houses with the mirroring canals, 

 in still afternoons when quiet light warms the 

 red wall, and dwells on the brown and scarlet 

 clematis in the cool violet and amber hollows 

 of the motionless water wherein the red wall 

 soundlessly slips and indefinitely recedes, hiding 

 an undiscovered house of shadow with silent 

 unseen folk dreaming out across invisible 

 gardens. There are ancient towns like this in 

 England also, as between Upsala and Elsinore 



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