large/9571/a_dreamers_tales_dm_1501_librivox_64kb_mp3/dreamerstales_05_dunsany_64kb_17
large/9571/a_dreamers_tales_dm_1501_librivox_64kb_mp3/dreamerstales_05_dunsany_64kb
English
9571
I had hoped to see Bethmoora once again. It is many a year ago, they say, when the vintage was last gathered in from the vineyards that I knew, where it is all desert now. I HAD HOPED TO SEE BETHMORA ONCE AGAIN IT IS MANY A YEAR AGO THEY SAY WHEN THE VINTAGE WAS LAST GATHERED IN FROM THE VINEYARDS THAT I KNEW WHERE IT IS ALL DESERT NOW
ered out of London by the horrific hand of Time. A million common artificial things all cloaked for a while in mystery, like beggars robed in purple, and seated on dread thrones. Four million people asleep, dreaming perhaps. What worlds have they gone into? Whom have they met? But my thoughts are far off with Bethmoora in her loneliness, whose gates swing to and fro. To and fro they swing, and creak and creak in the wind, but no one hears them. They are of green copper, very lovely, but no one sees them now. The desert wind pours sand into their hinges, no watchman comes to ease them. No guard goes round Bethmoora's battlements, no enemy assails them. There are no lights in her houses, no footfall on her streets, she stands there dead and lonely beyond the Hills of Hap, and I would see Bethmoora once again, but dare not. It is many a year, they tell me, since Bethmoora became desolate. Her desolation is spoken of in taverns where sailors meet, and certain travellers have told me of it. NE'S MIND A NIGHT BUT JUST NOW GATHERED OUT OF LONDON BY THE HORRIFIC HAND OF TIME A MILLION COMMON ARTIFICIAL THINGS ALL CLOAKED FOR A WHILE IN MYSTERY LIKE BEGGARS ROBED IN PURPLE AND SEATED ON DREAD THRONES FOUR MILLION PEOPLE ASLEEP DREAMING PERHAPS WHAT WORLDS HAVE THEY GONE INTO WHOM HAVE THEY MET BUT MY THOUGHTS ARE FAR OFF WITH BETHMORA IN HER LONELINESS WHOSE GATES SWING TO AND FRO TO AND FRO THEY SWING AND CREAK AND CREAK IN THE WIND BUT NO ONE HEARS THEM THEY ARE OF GREEN COPPER VERY LOVELY BUT NO ONE SEES THEM NOW THE DESERT WIND POURS SAND INTO THEIR HINGES NO WATCHMAN COMES TO EASE THEM NO GUARD GOES ROUND BETHMOR'S BATTLEMENTS NO ENEMY ASSAILS THEM THERE ARE NO LIGHTS IN HER HOUSES NO FOOTFALL ON HER STREETS SHE STANDS THERE DEAD AND LONELY BEYOND THE HILLS OF HAP AND I WOULD SEE BETHMORA ONCE AGAIN BUT DARE NOT IT IS MANY A YEAR THEY TELL ME SINCE BETHMORA BECAME DESOLATE HER DESOLATION IS SPOKEN OF IN TAVERNS WHERE SAILORS MEET AND CERTAIN TRAVELLERS HAVE TOLD ME OF IT
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