h the sky.
Down to earth hath heaven come; hard telling sun-clouds from the isles.

And high in air nods Nora-Bamma. Nid-nods its tufted summit like
three ostrich plumes; its beetling crags, bent poppies, shadows,
willowy shores, all nod; its streams are murmuring down the hills;
its wavelets hush the shore.

Who dwells in Nora-Bamma? Dreamers, hypochondriacs, somnambulists;
who, from the cark and care of outer Mardi fleeing, in the poppy's
jaded odors, seek oblivion for the past, and ecstasies to come.

Open-eyed, they sleep and dream; on their roof-trees, grapes unheeded
drop. In Nora-Bamma, whispers are as shouts; and at a zephyr's breath,
from the woodlands shake the leaves, as of humming-birds, a flight.

All this spake Braid-Beard, of the isle. How that none ere touched
its strand, without rendering instant tribute of a nap; how that
those who thither voyaged, in golden quest of golden gourds, fast
dropped asleep, ere one was plucked; waking not till night; how that
you must needs rub hard your eyes, would you wander through the isle;
and how that silent specters would be met, haunting twilight groves,
and dreamy meads; hither gliding, thither fading, end or purpose none.

True or false, so much for Mohi's Nora Bamma.

But as we floated on, it looked the place described. We yawned, and
yawned, as crews of vessels may; as in warm Indian seas, their
winnowing sails all swoon, when by them glides some opium argosie.

CHAPTER LXXXVIII
In A Calm, Hautia's Heralds Approach

"How still!" cried Babbalanja. "This calm is like unto Oro's
everlasting serenity, and like unto man's last despair."

But now the silence was broken by a strange, distant, intermitted
melody in the water.

Gazing over the side, we saw naught but a far-darting ray in its
depths.

Then Yoomy, before buried in a reverie, burst forth with a verse,
sudden as a jet from a Geyser.

Like the fish of the bright and twittering fin,
Bright fish! diving deep as high soars the lark,
So, far, far, far, doth the maiden swim,
Wild song, wild light, in still ocean's dark.

"What maiden, minstrel?" cried Media.

"None of these," answered Yoomy, pointing out a shallop gliding near.

"The damsels three:--Taji, they pursue you yet." That still canoe
drew nigh, the Iris in its prow.

Gliding slowly by, one damsel flung a Venus-car, the leaves yet fresh.

Said Yoomy--"Fly to love."

The second maiden flung a pallid blossom