It is little more than a drift of the
air in all its quills, it breathes through its whole frame and flesh and
glows with air in its flying, like blown flames; it rests upon the air,
subdues it, surpasses it, outraces it,--is the air, conscious of itself,
conquering itself, ruling itself.
Also, in the throat of the bird is given the voice of the air. All that
in the wind itself is weak, wild, useless in sweetness, is knit together
in its song. As we may imagine the wild form of the bird's wings, so the
wild voice of the cloud into its ordered and commanded voice; unwearied,
rippling through the clear heaven in its gladness, interpreting all
intense passion through the soft spring nights, bursting into acclaim and
rapture of choir at daybreak, or lisping and twittering among the boughs
and hedges through heat of day, like little winds that only make the
cowslip bells shake, and ruffle the petals of the wild rose.
66. Also, upon the plumes of the bird are put the colors of the air; on
these the gold of the cloud, that cannot be gathered by any covetousness;
the rubies of the clouds, that are not the price of Athena, but are
Athena; the vermillion of the cloud-bar, and the flame of the
cloud-crest, and the snow of the cloud, and its shadow, and the melted
blue of the deep wells of the sky,--all these, seized by the creating
spirit, and woven by Athena herself into films and threads of plume; with
wave on wave following and fading along breast, and throat, and opened
wings, infinite as the dividing of the foam and the sifting of the
sea-sand; even the white down of the cloud seeming to flutter up between
the stronger plumes,--seen, but too soft for touch.
Pages:
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102