The Spur of Doom, a mountain shaft as red as hell, and inaccessible, insurmountable, lured with strange light.

Dusk, a bold, black dome, was shrouded by the shadow of a giant mesa.

The Star of Bethlehem glittered from the brow of Point Sublime.

The Wraith, fleecy, feathered curtain of mist, floated down among the ruins of castles and palaces, like the ghost of a goddess.

Vales of Twilight, dim, dark ravines, mystic homes of specters, led into the awful Valley of the Shadow, clothed in purple night.
Suddenly, as the first puff of the night wind fanned my cheek, a strange, sweet, low moaning and sighing came to my ears.