I half-rose--youths and maidens these of the fair-haired; and youths
and maids more beautiful than any of those I had yet seen--for upon
their faces was little of that disturbing mockery to which I have been
forced so often, because of the deep impression it made upon me, to
refer. The ashen-gold of the maiden priestesses' hair was wound about
their brows in shining coronals. The pale locks of the youths were
clustered within circlets of translucent, glimmering gems like
moonstones. And then, crystal globe alternately before and harp
alternately held by youth and maid, they began to sing.
What was that song, I do not know--nor ever shall. Archaic, ancient
beyond thought, it seemed--not with the ancientness of things that for
uncounted ages have been but wind-driven dust. Rather was it the
ancientness of the golden youth of the world, love lilts of earth
younglings, with light of new-born suns drenching them, chorals of
young stars mating in space; murmurings of April gods and goddesses. A
languor stole through me.
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