ABSTRACT
The Final Picture shadows? How sound the words of Paul of Tarsus among the willows and dykes? Far from desert and arid dates, far from the bazaars, those wells of whiteness like the lotus-flute bell of the leper sleeping in a sun-girt shade, far from the twilight walls, different levels, walls made for leaning and stations for attention to Solomon's ducts, water trickling under the dust, far from the dry months and the moon-cedars of Lebanon, far from the sudden explosion of the seasons; in Europe sailing with full canvas of moisture, in Europe the voice croaking in the wilderness becomes the plaintive Gregorian chant, brown date and white lazar-houses become the grey smocks and the grey stone, the parables become monkish tales and palm-like Gothic piers, and vaults prolific as the mustard tree.
