They are giving their own little fancies the sanction of
the universe. The butterfly that I see flitting about in the sunshine
outside might as well read the European war as a comment on its aimless
little life. The stars do not chatter about us, but they have a balm for us
if we will be silent. The "huge and thoughtful night" speaks a language
simple, august, universal.
It is one of the smaller consolations of the war that it has given us in
London a chance of hearing that language. The lamps of the street are
blotted out, and the lamps above are visible. Five nights of the week all
the year round I take the last bus that goes northward from the City, and
from the back seat on the top I watch the great procession of the stars. It
is the most astonishing spectacle offered to men. Emerson said that if we
only saw it once in a hundred years we should spend years in preparing for
the vision. It is hung out for us every night, and we hardly give it a
glance. And yet it is well worth glancing at. It is the best corrective for
this agitated little mad-house in which we dwell and quarrel and fight and
die.
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