I. 



THE INN OF THE SILVER MOON " 



ERE you ever in the 

 open air through all the 

 rounded day with not 

 so much as a strip of 

 canvas between you 

 and the great space 

 above? Have you ever watched that 

 space put forth its round of blue 

 from palest grey at early morn chill 

 as Ophelia's brook-kissed tresses, to 

 warmer as the dove is grey, like 

 the passion of anaemic youth, to 

 steel glittering as the mercenary 

 eye, to drab a brooding menace, 

 to slate even as Othello's sombre 



