The autumn
trees, ravaged as they are, take on the flash of tattered flags kindling in the
gloom of cool cathedral caves where gold letters on marble pages describe death
in battle and how bones bleach and burn far away in Indian sands. The autumn
trees gleam in the yellow moonlight, in the light of harvest moons, the light
which mellows the energy of labour, and smooths the stubble, and brings the
wave lapping blue to the shore.
To the Lighthouse
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