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john3859

WHEN GOD LAUGHSAND OTHER STORIES
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throatsand again shading a tone with that ineffable tenderness which he
alone can utter.
How do I know all this? I saw--much. More I learned from her
diary. This I found in itfrom Fiona Macleod: 'Fortrulythat wandering
voicethat twilight-whisperthat breath so dewy-sweetthat flame-winged
lute- player whom none sees but for a momentin a rainbow-shimmer of
joyor a sudden lightning-flare of passionthis exquisite mystery we call
Amorcomesto some rapt visionaries at leastnot with a song upon the
lips that all may hearor with blithe viol of public musicbut as one
wrought by ecstasydumbly eloquent with desire.'
How to keep the flame-winged lute-player with his dumb eloquence
of desire? To feast him was to lose him. Their love for each other was
a great love. Their granaries were overflowing with plenitude; yet they
wanted to keep the sharp famine-edge of their love undulled.
Nor were they lean little fledglings theorizing on the threshold of
Love. They were robust and realized souls. They had loved beforewith
othersin the days before they met; and in those days they had throttled
Love with caressesand killed him with kissesand buried him in the pit of
satiety.
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