But the trees spun darkness for a wandering beam of sun. So fine, so rare, coolly sunk beneath the surface the beam I sought always burned behind the glass. The Treasure yours. The wind roars up the avenue. Trees stoop and bend this way and that.
Moonbeams splash and spill wildly in the rain.
But the beam of the lamp falls straight from the window. The candle burns stiff and still. Wandering through the house, opening the windows, whispering not to wake us, the ghostly couple seek their joy. Nearer they come, cease at the doorway. The wind falls, the rain slides silver down the glass.