88 WITH EARTH AND SKY 
But the day waned; and I stepped not outside 
my tent. The world was not. The bobolink was 
silenced. Nothing sang or spake save the crab 
blossoms distilling their music and poetry—voices 
of silence. And ere I knew it the night was 
darkening down. Where has this day gone? A 
few minutes ago I came here and now the dark 
dawneth. Is it so in Avillion? 
Day is spent and I must go. Trains do not 
wait for preachers. The day in my calendar is 
marked “Under the tent of the wild crab 
blossoming.” 
Certain old illuminators, when they had reached 
the longed-for last page and word, wrote in 
reverent wise “Laus deo.” I, in like manner, 
after a day of unspeakable delight under swaying 
branches of tourmaline pink doused with musk 
of the sky, write sedately in my heart, Laus deo. 
