. Down the year. tremor of the dawn strikes me—you knowit comes long before there is any light so you canbe ready for the spectacle—and I rise beneath thestars. I wonder why we always look at the skyfirst when the nights slumber ends. I like tokeep my window open so the first spectacle thatgreets my opening eyes is the majestic expanse ofGods heaven. I believe there must be somethingof the divine even in the worst of us, for I havenever seen the man who did not turn his face inthe first waking moments toward the sky. Theincomparable sweep and arch of the majesticdome seems the only sat
. Down the year. tremor of the dawn strikes me—you knowit comes long before there is any light so you canbe ready for the spectacle—and I rise beneath thestars. I wonder why we always look at the skyfirst when the nights slumber ends. I like tokeep my window open so the first spectacle thatgreets my opening eyes is the majestic expanse ofGods heaven. I believe there must be somethingof the divine even in the worst of us, for I havenever seen the man who did not turn his face inthe first waking moments toward the sky. Theincomparable sweep and arch of the majesticdome seems the only satisfaction for the gaze-search of the awakening human personality. SoI look first of all at the sk3\ No, I will not tellwhat I see; I cannot. It is blue, but you havenever seen a blue like it unless you have seen thesky as I see it now, so you will know nothing ofit if I say it is blue. And can I say it is blue? Ido not know whether that ineffable, heart-thrilling tone is blue or grav or green or all three. 58. THE INCOMPARABLE S\\ EEl A Nit ARCH OF THE MAJESTIC DOME WHEN DAWN COMES You must look. There is no light in all the worldexcept what comes from the stars. It is dark—night, but morning is near. The stars are verybright, but there is just a suspicion of wearinessin their brilliance, as if they were anxious to endtheir watch. They are not faint nor dim, it isonly a suggestion of flagging like you see in abrides eyes when she has poured out her heartslove and would love more if she could. Theyseem sorry they can shine no brighter, yet gladthey have shone so brightly through the night they were full and rich and is the starlight we know so well, the star-light of the evening. But the starlight of themorning is not like that; it has this strange touchof weariness, just enough to make it different anda little strange. This early morning time is astrange time and the stars partake of the beautifulstrangeness. It is strange because it is a kin
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