The Silence of Amor, Where the Forest Murmurs (Classic Reprint)

There is one word never spoken in these estrays of passion and longing. But you, White Flower of these fugitive blossoms, know it: for the rustle of the wings of Amor awakens you at dawn, and in the last quietudes of the dark your heart is his dear haven of dream. For, truly, that wandering voice, that twilight-whisper, that breath so dewy sweet, that flame-wing dluteplayer whom none sees but for a moment, in a rainbow-shimmer of joy, or a sudden lightning-flare of passion, this exquisite mystery we call A mor, comes, to some rapt visionaries at least, not with a song upon the lips that all may hear, or with blithe viol of a public music, but as one wrought by ecstasy, dumbly eloquent with desire, ineffable, silent. For Amor is ofttimes a dreamer, and when he dreams it is through lovely analogies.
(Typographical errors above are due to OCR software and don't occur in the book.)

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