There dwell the
children of Coradine, on the threshold of the wind-vexed wilderness,
where the stupendous columns of green glass uphold the roof of the House
of Coradine; the ocean's voice is in their rooms, and the inland-blowing
wind brings to them the salt spray and yellow sand swept at low tide
from the desolate floors of the sea, and the white-winged bird flying
from the black tempest screams aloud in their shadowy halls. There, from
the high terraces, when the moon is at its full, we see the children of
Coradine gathered together, arrayed like no others, in shining garments
of gossamer threads, when, like thistle-down chased by eddying winds,
now whirling in a cloud, now scattering far apart, they dance their
moonlight dances on the wide alabaster floors; and coming and going they
pass away, and seem to melt into the moonlight, yet ever to return again
with changeful melody and new measures. And, seeing this, all those
things in which we ourselves excel seem poor in comparison, becoming
pale in our memories. For the winds and waves, and the whiteness and
grace, has been ever with them; and the winged seed of the thistle, and
the flight of the gull, and the storm-vexed sea, flowering in foam, and
the light of the moon on sea and barren land, have taught them this art,
and a swiftness and grace which they alone possess.
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