The
age was the Elizabethan; their morals were not ours; nor their poets; nor
their climate; nor their vegetables even. Everything was different. The
weather itself, the heat and cold of summer and winter, was, we may believe,
of another temper altogether. The brilliant amorous day was divided
as sheerly from the night as land from water. Sunsets were redder and
more intense; dawns were whiter and more auroral. Of our crepuscular half-lights
and lingering twilights they knew nothing. The rain fell vehemently,
or not at all. The sun blazed or there was darkness. Translating
this to the spiritual regions as their wont is, the poets sang
beautifully how roses fade and petals fall. The moment is brief they sang;
the moment is over; one long night is then to be slept by all. As for
using the artifices of the greenhouse or conservatory to prolong or preserve
these fresh pinks and roses, that was not their way. The withered
intricacies and ambiguities of our more gradual and doubtful age were
unknown to them. Violence was all. The flower bloomed and faded. The sun
rose and sank. The lover loved and went. And what the poets said in rhyme,
the young translated into practice. Girls were roses, and their seasons
were short as the flowers'. Plucked they must be before nightfall; for the day
was brief and the day was all.
Orlando (20-21)
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