But the dusk comes slowly on, merging reed and pasture and gliding
stream in one indistinguishable shade; the trees stand out black
against the sunset, thickening to an emerald green. A star comes
out over the dark hill, the lights begin to peep out in the windows
of the clustering town as we draw nearer. As we glide beneath the
dark houses, with their gables and chimneys dark against the
glowing sky, how everything that is dull and trivial and homely is
blotted out by the twilight, leaving nothing but a sense of
romantic beauty of mysterious peace! The little town becomes an
enchanted city full of heroic folk; the figure that leans silently
over the bridge to see us pass, to what high-hearted business is he
vowed, burgher or angel? A spell is woven of shadow and falling
light, and of chimes floating over meadow and stream. Yet this
sense of something remotely and unutterably beautiful, this
transfiguration of life, is as real and vital an experience as the
daily, dreary toil, and to be welcomed as such. Nay, more! it is
better, because it gives one a deepened sense of value, of
significance, of eternal greatness, to which we must cling as
firmly as we may, because it is there that the final secret lies;
not in the poor struggles, the anxious delays, which are but the
incidents of the voyage, and not the serene life of haven and home.
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