"No longer was light analogous to the discharge of a blunderbuss, but rather to the pulsating flight of birds."

Previous Quote

The perfume of the flowers and of the bay tree are wafted on high, like incense. The birds sing sweet songs of praise to their Creator. In the tops of the trees, the soughing of the wind is like the hushed prayers of the multitude in some vast cathedral. Here the heart of man becomes impressionable.

— William Wendt