Thus time went on. My days were fair and bright, for I had found the perfect woman of a young man's dream, and gained the perfect love of a young man's imaginings. And she was as fair and bright as the days. Our love did not cloy; and it did not harden into duty; for all her wiles were fresh and grew no older: every hour she taught me some new wonder. What are the dreams of midnight? What are the reveries that come to a man in the sunshine of the afternoon? They only paint some fleeting scene the memory of which lingers deliciously for at most an hour. But the craft of love endures. Visions are on gossamer webs: but the landscapes of love are realities. You may touch and handle them. In love's woods there are live birds that sing true songs as sweet as the ditties of grey Rhineland. Love is no mirage on the haze of the desert. It is a fair oasis with a well of cool clear water lurking beneath green leaves and sparkling like a gem in the twilight. Everyone at first doubts the reality: but all may play Saint Thomas;
