Is not catastrophe dead, and the arrows of tragedy spilled?
Peace broadens into deep, perfumed dusk towards Arabia; languor spreads towards the unknown lands of the farthest south.

No anxious soul leans out from the casement of life; the time is heavy with delightful ease.

There is no sound that troubles; the world goes by and no one heeds; for it is all beyond this musky twilight and this pleasant hour.

In this palace on the sea Mirth trails in and out with airy and harmonious footsteps.

Even the clang-clang of eight bells has music--not boisterous nor disturbing, but muffled in the velvety air.