Thrice the arm rose, thrice it stood awhile in air, thrice it beckoned with crooked finger, as though it summoned something from the depths of the shadow, and from the multitudes of the dead.

Then it fell down, and in the utter silence I heard its fall and a clank of brazen bracelets.

And as it fell there rose from the shadow a sound of singing, of singing wild and sweet, such as I had never heard.

The words of that song came to me then, my father; but afterwards they passed from me, and I remember them no more.

Only I know this, that the song was of the making of Things, and of the beginning and the end of Peoples.