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Updated: May 4, 2025
She suggested a fine portrait kept down to a few tones, or a Greek vase on which the play of light is the only pattern. After dinner they went out on the terrace for a look at the moon-misted park. Through the crepuscular whiteness the trees hung in blotted masses. Below the terrace, the garden drew its dark diagrams between statues that stood like muffled conspirators on the edge of the shadow.
The earth was wrapped in a robe of gray, made of mist and illusion, and its every sound was hushed by the lullaby of the night-wind. Dim, silent mountains clustered about the silver waters, as great watchmen guarding a precious jewel. Toward me across the moon-misted sea came a procession of ghostly sails.
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