She lay out on the moor, under the August sun. Her hands were pressed
like a bandage over her eyes. When she lifted them she caught the faint
pink glow of their flesh. The light throbbed and nickered as she pressed
it out, and let it in.
The sheep couched, panting, in the shade of the stone covers. She lay so
still that the peewits had stopped their cry.
Something bothered her....
_And in the east one pure, prophetic star_--one pure prophetic
star--_Trembles between the darkness and the dawn_.
What you wrote last year. No reason why you shouldn't write modern plays
in blank verse if you wanted to. Only people didn't say those things. You
couldn't do it that way.
Let the thing go. Tear it to bits and burn them in the kitchen fire.
If you lay still, perfectly still, and stopped thinking the other thing
would come back.
_In dreams He has made you wise,
With the wisdom of silence and prayer,
God, who has blinded your eyes,
With the dusk of your hair_.
The Mother. The Mother. Mother and Son.
_You and he are near akin.
Would you slay your brother-in-sin?
What he does yourself shall do_--
That was the Son's hereditary destiny.
Lying on her back under Karva, she dreamed her "Dream-Play"; saying the
unfinished verses over and over again, so as to remember them when she
got home. She was unutterably happy.