A POET'S PALACE.
Gliding along with that graceful, almost phantom-like swiftness of
movement that was so much a part of his manner, Sah-luma escorted his
visitor to the further end of the great hall. There,--throwing aside a
curtain of rich azure silk which partially draped two large
folding-doors,--he ushered him into a magnificent apartment opening out
upon the terrace and garden beyond,--a garden filled with such a
marvellous profusion of foliage and flowers, that looking at it from
between the glistening marble columns surrounding the palace, it seemed
as though the very sky above rested edge-wise on towering pyramids of
red and white bloom. Awnings of pale blue stretched from the windows
across the entire width of the spacious outer colonnade, and here two
small boys, half nude, and black as polished ebony, were huddled
together on the mosaic pavement, watching the arrogant deportment of a
superb peacock that strutted majestically to and fro with boastfully
spreading tail and glittering crest as brilliant as the gleam of the
hot sun on the silver fringe of the azure canopies.
"Up, lazy rascals!" cried Sah-luma imperiously, as with the extreme
point of his sandaled foot he touched the dimpled, shiny back of the
nearest boy--"Up, and away! ... Fetch rose-water and sweet perfumes
hither! By the gods! ye have let the incense in yonder burner
smoulder!"--and he pointed to a massive brazen vessel, gorgeously
ornamented, from whence rose but the very faintest blue whiff of
fragrant smoke--"Off with ye both, ye basking blackamoors! bring fresh
frankincense,--and palm-leaves wherewith to stir this heated air--hence
and back again like a lightning-flash! ... or out of my sight forever!"
While he spoke, the little fellows stood trembling and ducking their
woolly heads, as though they half expected to be seized by their irate
master and flung, like black balls, out into the wilderness of flowers,
but glancing timidly up and perceiving that even in the midst of his
petulance he smiled, they took courage, and as soon as he had ceased
they darted off with the swiftness of flying arrows, each striving to
outstrip the other in a race across the terrace and garden. Sah-luma
laughed as he watched them disappear,--and then stepping back into the
interior of the apartment he turned to Theos and bade him be seated.
Theos sank unresistingly into a low, velvet-cushioned chair richly
carved and inlaid with ivory, and stretching his limbs indolently
therein, surveyed with new and ever-growing admiration the supple,
elegant figure of his host, who, throwing himself full length on a
couch covered with leopard-skins, folded his arms behind his head, and
eyed his guest with a complacent smile of vanity and self-approval.
"'Tis not an altogether unfitting retreat for a poet's musings"--he
said, assuming an air of indifference, as he glanced round his
luxurious, almost royally appointed room--"I have heard of worse!--But
truly it needs the highest art of all known nations to worthily deck a
habitation wherein the divine Muse may daily dwell, ... nevertheless,
air, light, and flowers are not lacking, and on these methinks I could
subsist, were I deprived of all other things!"
Theos sat silent, looking about him wistfully. Was ever poet, king, or
even emperor, housed more sumptuously than this, he thought? ... as his
eyes wandered to the domed ceiling, wreathed with carved clusters of
grapes and pomegranates,--the walls, frescoed with glowing scenes of
love and song-tournament,--the groups of superb statuary that gleamed
whitely out of dusky, velvet-draped corners,--the quaintly shaped
book-cases, overflowing with books, and made so as to revolve round and
round at a touch, or move to and fro on noiseless wheels,--the grand
busts, both in bronze and marble, that stood on tall pedestals or
projecting bracket; and,--while he dimly noted all these splendid
evidences of unlimited wealth and luxury,--the perfume and lustre of
the place, the glitter of gold and azure, silver and scarlet, the
oriental languor pervading the very air, and above all the rich amber
and azure-tinted light that bathed every object in a dream-like and
fairy radiance, plunged his senses into a delicious confusion,--a
throbbing fever of delight to which he could give no name, but which
permeated every fibre of his being.
He felt half blinded with the brilliancy of the scene,--the dazzling
glow of color,--the sheen of deep and delicate hues cunningly
intermixed and contrasted,--the gorgeous lavishness of waving blossoms
that seemed to surge up like a sea to the very windows,--and though
many thoughts flitted hazily through his brain, he could not shape them
into utterance. He stared vaguely at the floor,--it was paved with
variegated mosaic and strewn with the soft, dark, furry skins of wild
animals,--at a little distance from where he sat there was a huge
bronze lectern supported by a sculptured griffin with horns,--horns
which curving over at the top, turned upward again in the form of
candelabra,--the harp-bearer had brought in the harp, and it now stood
in a conspicuous position decked with myrtle, some of the garlands
woven by the maidens being no doubt used for this purpose.
Yet there was something mirage-like and fantastic in the splendor that
everywhere surrounded him,--he felt as though he were one of the
spectators in a vast auditorium where the curtain had just risen on the
first scene of the play He was dubiously considering in his own
perplexed mind, whether such princely living were the privilege, or
right, or custom of poets in general, when Sah-luma spoke again, waving
his hand toward one of the busts near him--a massive, frowning head,
magnificently sculptured.
"There is the glorious Orazel!" he said--"The father, as we all must
own, of the Art of Poesy, and indeed of all true literature! Yet there
be some who swear he never lived at all--aye! though his poems have
come down to us,--and many are the arguments I have had with so-called
wise men like Zabastes, concerning his style and method of
versification. Everything he has written bears the impress of the same
master-touch,--nevertheless garrulous controversialists hold that his
famous work the 'Ruva-Kalama' descended by oral tradition from mouth to
mouth till it came to us in its 'improved' present condition.
'Improved!'" and Sah-luma laughed disdainfully,--"As if the mumbling of
an epic poem from grandsire to grandson could possibly improve it! ...
it would rather be deteriorated, if not altogether changed into the
merest doggerel! Nay, nay!--the 'Ruva-Kalama,' is the achievement of
one great mind,--not twenty Oruzels were born in succession to write
it,--there was, there could be only one, and he, by right supreme, is
chief of the Bards Immortal! As well might fools hereafter wrangle
together and say there were many Sah-lumas! ... only I have taken good
heed posterity shall know there was only ONE,--unmatched for
love-impassioned singing throughout the length and breadth of the
world!"
He sprang up from his recumbent posture and attracted Theos's attention
to another bust even finer than the last,--it was placed on a pedestal
wreathed at the summit and at the base with laurel.
"The divine Hyspiros!" he exclaimed pointing to it in a sort of
ecstasy--"The Master from whom it may be I have caught the perfect
entrancement of my own verse-melody! His fame, as thou knowest, is
unrivalled and universal--yet--canst thou believe it! ... there has
been of late an ass found in Al-Kyris who hath chosen him as a subject
for his braying--and other asses join in the uneuphonius chorus. The
marvellous Plays of Hyspiros! ... the grandest tragedies, the airiest
comedies, the tenderest fantasies, ever created by human brain, have
been called in question by these thistle-eating animals!--and one most
untractable mule-head hath made pretence to discover therein a passage
of secret writing which shall, so the fool thinks, prove that Hyspiros
was not the author of his own works, but only a literary cheat, and
forger of another and lesser man's inspiration! By the gods!--one's
sides would split with laughter at the silly brute, were he not
altogether too contemptible to provoke even derision! Hyspiros a
traitor to the art he served and glorified? ... Hyspiros a literary
juggler and trickster? ... By the Serpent's Head! they may as well seek
to prove the fiery Sun in Heaven a common oil-lamp, as strive to lessen
by one iota the transcendent glory of the noblest poet the centuries
have ever seen!"
Warmed by enthusiasm, with his eyes flashing and the impetuous words
coursing from his lips, his head thrown back, his hand uplifted,
Sah-luma looked magnificent,--and Theos, to whose misty brain the names
of Oruzel and Hyspiros carried no positively distinct meaning, was
nevertheless struck by a certain suggestiveness in his remarks that
seemed to bear on some discussion in the literary world that had taken
place quite recently. He was puzzled and tried to fix the precise point
round which his thoughts strayed so hesitatingly, but he could arrive
at no definite conclusion. The brilliant, meteor-like Sah-luma meantime
flashed hither and thither about the room, selecting certain volumes
from his loaded book-stands, and bringing them in a pile, he set them
on a small table by his visitor's side.
"These are some of the earliest editions of the plays of Hyspiros"--he
went on, talking in that rapid, fluent way of his that was as musical
as a bird's song--"They are rare and curious. See you!--the names of
the scribes and the dates of issue are all distinct. Ah!--the treasures
of poetry enshrined within these pages! ... was ever papyrus so gemmed
with pearls of thought and wisdom?--If there were a next world, my
friend,"--and here he placed his hand familiarly on his guest's
shoulder, while the bright, steel-gray under-gleam sparkled in his
splendid eyes--"'twould be worth dwelling in for the sake of
Hyspiros,--as grand a god as any of the Thunderers in the empyrean!"
"Surely there is a next world"--murmured Theos, scarcely knowing what
he said--"A world where thou and I, Sah-luma, and all the masters and
servants of song shall meet and hold high festival!"
Sah-luma laughed again, a little sadly this time, and shrugged his
shoulders.
"Believe it not!" he said, and there was a touch of melancholy in his
rich voice--"We are midges in a sunbeam,--emmets on a sand-hill...no
more! Is there a next world, thinkest thou, for the bees who die of
surfeit in the nilica-cups?--for the whirling drift of brilliant
butterflies that sleepily float with the wind unknowing whither, till
met by the icy blast of the north, they fall like broken and colorless
leaves in the dust of the high-road? Is there a next world for
this?"--and he took from a tall vase near at hand a delicate flower,
lily-shaped and deliciously odorous, . . "The expression of its soul or
mind is in its fragrance,--even as the expression of ours finds vent in
thought and aspiration,--have we more right to live again than this
most innocently fair blossom, unsmirched by deeds of evil? Nay!--I
would more easily believe in a heaven for birds and flowers, than for
women and men!"
A shadow of pain darkened his handsome face as he spoke, . . and Theos,
gazing full at him, became suddenly filled with pity and anxiety,--he
passionately longed to assure him that there was in very truth a future
higher and happier existence,--he, Theos, would vouch for the fact! But
how? ... and why? ... What could he say? ... what could he prove? ...
His throat ached,--his eyeballs burned, he was, as it were, forbidden
to speak, notwithstanding the yearning desire he felt to impart to the
soul of his new-found friend something of that indescribable sense of
EVERLASTINGNESS which he himself was now conscious of, even as one set
free of prison is conscious of liberty. Mute, and with a feeling as of
hot, unshed tears welling up from his very heart, he turned over the
volumes of Hyspiros almost mechanically,--they were formed of sheets of
papyrus artistically bound in loose leather coverings and tied together
with gold-colored ribbon.
The Kyrisian language was, as has been before stated, perfectly
familiar to him, though he could not tell how he had acquired the
knowledge of it,--and he was able to see at a glance that Sah-luma had
good cause to be enthusiastic in his praise of the author whose genius
he so fervently admired. There was a ringing richness in the rush of
the verse,--a wealth of simile combined with a simplicity and
directness of utterance that charmed the ear while influencing the
mind, and he was beginning to read in sotto-voce the opening lines of a
spirited battle-challenge running thus:
"I tell thee, O thou pride enthroned King
That from these peaceful fields, these harvest lands,
Strange crops shall spring, not sown by thee or thine!
Arm'd millions, bristling weapons, helmed men
Dreadfully plum'd and eager for the fray,
Steel crested myrmidons, toss'd spears, wild steeds,
Uplifted flags and pennons, horrid swords,
Death gleaming eyes, stern hands to grasp and tear
Life from beseeching life, till all the heavens
Strike havoc to the terror-trembling stars"...
when the two small, black pages lately dispatched in such haste by
Sah-luma returned, each one bearing a huge gilded bowl filled with rose
water, together with fine cloths, lace-fringed, and soft as satin.
Kneeling humbly down, one before Theos, the other before Sah-luma, they
lifted these great, shining bowls on their heads, and remained
motionless. Sah-luma dipped his face and hands in the cool, fragrant
fluid,--Theos followed his example,--and when these light ablutions
were completed, the pages disappeared, coming back almost immediately
with baskets of loose rose-leaves, white and red, which they scattered
profusely about the room. A delightful odor subtly sweet, and yet not
faint, began to freshen the already perfumed air,--and Sah-luma,
flinging himself again on his couch, motioned Theos to take a similar
resting-place opposite.
He at once obeyed, yielding anew to the sense of indolent luxury and
voluptuous ease his surroundings engendered,--and presently the aroma
of rising incense mingled itself with the scent of the strewn
rose-petals,--the pages had replenished the incense-burner, and now,
these duties done so far, they brought each a broad, long stalked
palm-leaf, and placing themselves in proper position, began to fan the
two young men slowly and with measured gentleness, standing as mute as
little black statues, the only movement about them being the occasional
rolling of their white eyeballs and the swaying to and fro of their
shiny arms as they wielded the graceful, bending leaves.
"This is the way a poet should ever live!" murmured Theos, glancing up
from the soft cushions among which he reclined, to Sah-luma, who lay
with his eyes half-closed and a musing smile on his beautiful
mouth--"Self centered in a circle of beauty,--with naught but fair
suggestions and sweet thoughts to break the charm of solitude. A
kingdom of happy fancies should be his, with gates shut last against
unwelcome intruders,--gates that should never open save to the
conquering touch of woman's kiss! ... for the master-key of love must
unlock all doors, even the doors of a minstrel's dreaming!"
"Thinkest thou so?" said Sah-luma lazily, turning his dark, delicate
head slightly round on his glistening, pale-rose satin pillow--"Nay, of
a truth there are times when I could bar out women from my thoughts as
mere disturbers of the translucent element of poesy in which my spirit
bathes. There is fatigue in love, . . whose pretty human butterflies
too oft weary the flower whose honey they seek to drain. Nevertheless
the passion of love hath a certain tingling pleasure in it, . . I yield
to it when it touches me, even as I yield to all other pleasant
things,--but there are some who unwisely carry desire too far, and make
of love a misery instead of a pastime. Many will die for love,--fools
are they all! To die for fame, . . for glory, . . that I can
understand, . . but for love! ..." he laughed, and taking up a crushed
rose-petal he flipped it into the air with his finger and thumb--"I
would as soon die for sake of that perished leaf as for sake of a
woman's transient beauty!"
As he uttered these words Niphrata entered, carrying a golden salver on
which were placed a tall flagon, two goblets, and a basket of fruit.
She approached Theos first, and he, raising himself on his elbow,
surveyed her with fresh admiration and interest while he poured out the
wine from the flagon into one of those glistening cups, which he
noticed were rough with the quantity of small gems used in their outer
ornamentation.
He was struck by her fair and melancholy style of loveliness, and as
she stood before him with lowered eyes, the color alternately flushing
and paling on her cheeks, and her bosom heaving restlessly beneath the
loosely drawn folds of her prim rose-hued gown, an inexplicable emotion
of pity smote him, as if he had suddenly been made aware of some inward
sorrow of hers which he was utterly powerless to console. He would have
spoken, but just then could find nothing appropriate to say, . . and
when he had selected a fine peach from the heaped-up dainties offered
for his choice, he still watched her as she turned to Sah-luma, who
smiled, and bade her set down her salver on a low, bronze stand at his
side. She did so, and then with the warm blood burning in her cheeks,
stood waiting and silent. Sah-luma, with a lithe movement of his supple
form, lifted himself into a half-sitting posture, and throwing one arm
round her waist, drew her close to his breast and kissed her.
"My fairest moonbeam!" he said gayly--"Thou art as noiseless and placid
as thy yet unembodied sisters that stream through heaven and dance on
the river when the world is sleeping! Myrtle! ..." and he detached a
spray from the bosom of her dress--"What hast thou to do with the
poet's garland? By my faith, thou art like Theos yonder, and hast
chosen to wear a sprig of my faded crown for thine adornment--is't not
so?" A hot and painful blush crimsoned Niphrata's face,--a softness as
of suppressed tears glistened in her eyes,--she made no answer, but
looked beseechingly at the little twig Sah-luma held. "Silly child!" he
went on laughingly, replacing it himself against her bosom, where the
breath seemed to struggle with such panting haste and fear--"Thou art
welcome to the dead leaves sanctified by song, if thou thinkest them of
value, but I would rather see the rosebud of love nestled in that
pretty white breast of thine, than the cast-off ornaments of fame!"
And filling himself a cup of wine he raised it aloft, looking at Theos
smilingly as he did so.
"To your health, my noble friend!" he cried, "and to the joys of the
passing hour!"
"A wise toast!" answered Theos, placing his lips to his own goblet's
rim,--"For the past is past,--'twill never return,--the future we know
not,--and only the present can be called our own! To the health of the
divine Sah-luma, whose fame is my glory!--whose friendship is dear to
me as life!"
And with this, he drained off the wine to the last drop. Scarcely had
he done so, when the most curious sensation overcame him--a sensation
of bewildering ecstasy as though he had drunk of some ambrosian nectar
or magic drug which had suddenly wound up his nerves to an acute
tension of indescribable delight. The blood coursed more swiftly
through his veins,--he felt his face flush with the impulsive heat and
ardor of the moment,--he laughed as he set the cup down empty, and
throwing himself back on his luxurious couch, his eyes flashed on
Sah-luma's with a bright, comprehensive glance of complete confidence
and affection. It was strange to note how quickly Sah-luma returned
that glance,--how thoroughly, in so short a space of time, their
friendship had cemented itself into a more than fraternal bond of
union! Niphrata, meanwhile, stood a little aside, her wistful looks
wandering from one to the other as though in something of doubt or
wonder. Presently she spoke, inclining her fair head toward Sah-luma.
"My lord goes to the Palace to-night to make his valued voice heard in
the presence of the King?" she inquired timidly.
"Even so, Niphrata!" responded the Laureate, passing his hand
carelessly through his clustering curls--"I have been summoned thither
by the Royal command. But what of that, little one? Thou knowest 'tis a
common occurrence,--and that the Court is bereft of all pleasure and
sweetness when Sah-luma is silent."
"My lord's guest goes with him?" pursued Niphrata gently.
"Aye, most assuredly?" and Sah-luma smiled at Theos as he spoke--"Thou
wilt accompany me to the King, my friend?" he went on--"He will give
thee a welcome for my sake, and though of a truth His Majesty is most
potently ignorant of all things save the arts of love and warfare,
nevertheless he is man as well as monarch, and thou wilt find him noble
in his greeting and generous of hospitality."
"I will go with thee, Sah-luma, anywhere!" replied Theos quickly--"For
in following such a guide, I follow my own most perfect pleasure."
Niphrata looked at him meditatively, with a melancholy expression in
her lovely eyes.
"My lord Sah-luma's presence indeed brings joy!" she said softly and
tremulously--"But the joy is too sweet and brief--for when he departs,
none can fill the place he leaves vacant!"
She paused,--Sah-luma's gaze rested on her intently, a half-amused,
half-tender light leaping from under the drooping shade of his long,
silky black lashes,--she caught the look, and a little shiver ran
through her delicate frame,--she pressed one hand on her heart, and
resumed in steadier and more even tones,--"My lord has perhaps not
heard of the disturbances of the early morning in the city?"--she
asked--"The riotous crowd in the marketplace--the ravings of the
Prophet Khosrul? ... the sudden arrest and imprisonment of many,--and
the consequent wrath of the King?"
"No, by my faith!" returned Sah-luma, yawning slightly and settling his
head more comfortably on his pillows--"Nor do I care to heed the
turbulence of a mob that cannot guide itself and yet resists all
guidance. Arrests? ... imprisonments? ... they are common,--but why in
the name of the Sacred Veil do they not arrest and imprison the actual
disturbers of the peace,--the Mystics and Philosophers whose street
orations filter through the mind of the disaffected, rousing them to
foolish frenzy and disordered action?--Why, above all men, do they not
seize Khosrul?--a veritable madman, for all his many years and seeming
wisdom! Hath he not denounced the faith of Nagaya and foretold the
destruction of the city times out of number? ... and are we not all
weary to death of his bombastic mouthing? If the King deemed a poet's
counsel worth the taking, he would long ago have shut this bearded
ranter within the four walls of a dungeon, where only rats and spiders
would attend his lectures on approaching Doom!"
"Nay, but my lord--" Niphrata ventured to say timidly--"The King dare
not lay hands on Khosrul ..."
"Dare not!" laughed Sah-luma lazily stretching out his hand and helping
himself to a luscious nectarine from the basket at his side--"Sweet
Niphrata! ... settest thou a limit to the power of the King? As well
draw a boundary-line for the imagination of the poet! Khosrul may be
loved and feared by a certain number of superstitious malcontents who
look upon a madman as a sort of sacred wild animal,--but the actual
population of Al-Kyris,--the people who are the blood, bone, and sinew
of the city,--these are not in favor of change either in religion,
laws, manners, or customs. But Khosrul is old,--and that the King
humors his vagaries is simply out of pity for his age and infirmity,
Niphrata,--not because of fear! Our Monarch knows no fear."
"Khosrul prophesies terrible things!" ... murmured the girl
hesitatingly--"I have often thought ... if they should come true...."
"Thou timid dove!" and Sah-luma, rising from his couch, kissed her neck
lightly, thus causing a delicate flush of crimson to ripple through the
whiteness of her skin--"Think no more of such folly--thou wilt anger
me. That a doting graybeard like Khosrul should trouble the peace of
Al-Kyris the Magnificent, ... by the gods--the whole thing is absurd!
Let me hear no more of mobs or riots, or road-rhetoric,--my soul abhors
even the suggestion of discord. Tranquillity! ... Divinest calm,
disturbed only by the flutterings of winged thoughts hovering over the
cloudless heaven of fancy! ... this, this alone is the sum and centre
of my desires.--and to-day I find that even thou, Niphrata--" here his
voice took upon itself an injured tone,--"thou, who art usually so
gentle, hast somewhat troubled the placidity of my mind by thy foolish
talk concerning common and unpleasant circumstances, ... "He stopped
short and a line of vexation and annoyance made its appearance between
his broad, beautiful brows, while Niphrata seeing this expression of
almost baby-petulance in the face she adored threw herself suddenly at
his feet, and raising her lovely eyes swimming in tears, she exclaimed:
"My lord! Sah-luma! Singing-angel of Niphrata's soul!--Forgive me! It
is true, ... thou shouldst never hear of strife or contention among the
coarser tribe of men,--and I, ... I, poor Niphrata, would give my life
to shield thee from the faintest shadow of annoy! I would have thy path
all woven sunbeams,--thou shouldst live like a fairy monarch embowered
'mid roses, sheltered from rough winds, and folded in loving arms,
fairer maybe, but not more fond than mine!" ... Her voice
broke,--stooping, she kissed the silver fastening of his sandal, and
springing up, rushed from the room before a word could be uttered to
bid her stay.
Sah-luma looked after her with a pretty, half-pleased perplexity.
"She is often thus!" he said in a tone of playful resignation,--"As I
told thee, Theos,--women are butterflies, hovering hither and thither
on uneasy pinions, uncertain of their own desires. Niphrata is a
woman-riddle,--sometimes she angers me,--sometimes she soothes, ... now
she prattles of things that concern me not,--and anon converses with
such high and lofty earnestness of speech, that I listen amazed, and
wonder where she hath gathered up her store of seeming wisdom."
"Love teaches her all she knows!" interrupted Theos quickly and with a
meaning glance.
Sah-luma laughed languidly, a faint color warming the clear olive
pallor of his complexion.
"Aye,--poor tender little soul, she loves me,".. he said
carelessly--"That is no secret! But then all women love me,--I am more
like to die of a surfeit of love than of anything else" He moved
towards the open window "Come!--" he added--"It is the hour of
sunset,--there is a green hillock in my garden yonder from whence we
can behold the pomp and panoply of the golden god's departure. 'Tis a
sight I never miss,--I would have thee share its glory with me."
"But art thou then indifferent to woman's tenderness?" asked Theos half
banteringly, as he took his arm--"Dost thou love no one?"
"My friend"--replied Sah-luma seriously--"I love Myself! I see naught
that contents me more than my own Personality,--and with all my heart I
admire the miracle and beauty of my own existence! There is nothing
even in the completest fairness of womanhood that satisfies me so much
as the contemplation of my own genius,--realizing as I do its wondrous
power and perfect charm! The life of a poet such as I am is a perpetual
marvel!--the whole Universe ministers to my needs,--Humanity becomes
the merest bound slave to the caprice of my imperial imagination,--with
a thought I scale the stars,--with a wish I float in highest ether
among spheres undiscovered yet familiar to my fancy--I converse with
the spirits of flowers and fountains,--and the love of women is a mere
drop in the deep ocean of my unfathomed delight! Yes,--I adore my own
Identity! ... and of a truth Self-worship is the only Creed the world
has ever followed faithfully to the end!"
He glanced up with a bright, assured smile,--Theos met his gaze
wonderingly, doubtfully,--but made no reply,--and together they paced
slowly across the marble terrace, and out into the glorious garden,
rich with the riotous roses that clambered and clustered everywhere,
their hues deepening to flame-like vividness in the burning radiance of
the sinking sun.