But, strangely enough, when he brought you his sketch, all your "sibylline suggestiveness" was there, which of course means, after all, that painting was his way of seeing and saying it.
The moon rose as we smoked on, and began to lattice with silver the darkness of the glen, and flood the hillside with misty radiance.

Colin made for his sketch-box.
"I must make good use of this moon," he said, "before we go." "And so must I," said I, laughing as we both went out into the night, he one way and I another, to make our different uses of the moon.
An hour later Colin turned in with a panel that seemed made of moonlight.
"How on earth did you do it ?" I said.

"It is as though you had drawn up the moon in a silver bucket from the bottom of a fairy well." "No, no," he protested; "I know better.

But where is your _clair de lune_ ?" "Nothing doing," I answered.
"Well, then, say those lines you wrote a week or two ago instead." "'Berries already,' do you mean ?" "Yes." Here are the lines he meant: _Berries already, September soon,-- The shortening day and ike early moon; The year is busy with next year's flowers The seeds are ready for next year' showers; Through a thousand tossing trees there swells The sigh of the Summer's sad farewells.
Too soon those leaves in the sunset sky Low down on the wintry ground will lie, And grim November and December Leave naught of Summer to remember-- Saving some flower in a book put by, Secure from the soft effacing snow, Though all the rest of the Summer go._.