after they are born babes upon our earth; where, if, when grown, they find each other, it goes well with them; if not, it will seem to go ill. But of this I know nothing. When I told them that the women on the Earth had not wings like them, but arms, they stared, and said how bold and masculine they must look; not knowing that their wings, glorious as they are, are but undeveloped arms.
But see the power of this book, that, while recounting what I can recall of its contents, I write as if myself had visited the far- off planet, learned its ways and appearances, and conversed with its men and women. And so, while writing, it seemed to me that I had.
The book goes on with the story of a maiden, who, born at the close of autumn, and living in a long, to her endless winter, set out at last to find the regions of spring; for, as in our earth, the seasons are divided
over the globe. It begins something like this:
She watched them dying for many a day, Dropping from off the old trees away, One by one ; or else in a shower Crowding over the withered flower. For as if they had done some grievous wrong, The sun, that had nursed them and loved them so long, Grew weary of loving, and, turning back, Hastened away on his southern track ; And helplessly hung each shrivelled leaf, Faded away with an idle grief.