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148 TO THE LIGHTHOUSEdeath in battle and how bones bleach and burn faraway in Indian sands. The autumn trees gleam inthe yellow moonlight, in the light of harvest moons,the light which mellows the energy of labour, andsmooths the stubble, and brings the wave lappingblue to the shore.

It seemed now as if, touched by human penitenceand all its toil, divine goodness had parted the cur-tain and displayed behind it, single, distinct, thehare erect; the wave falling; the boat rocking, which,did we deserve them, should be ours always. Butalas, divine goodness, twitching the cord, draws thecurtain; it does not please him; he covers his trea-sures in a drench of hail, and so breaks them, soconfuses them that it seems impossible that theircalm should ever return or that we should ever com-pose from their fragments a perfect whole or read in thelittered pieces the clear words of truth. For our peni-tence deserves a glimpse only; our toil respite only.

The nights now are full of wind and destruction;the trees plunge and bend and their leaves fly helterskelter until the lawn is plastered with them and theylie packed in gutters and choke rain pipes and scatterdamp paths. Also the sea tosses itself and breaksitself, and should any sleeper fancying that he mightfind on the beach an answer to his doubts, a sharerof his solitude, throw off his bedclothes and go downby himself to walk on the sand, no image with sem-blance of serving and divine promptitude comesreadily to hand bringing the night to order andmaking the world reflect the compass of the soul.The hand dwindles in his hand; the voice bellows inhis ear. Almost it would appear that it is useless in