Chapel of the Planets and though the tide of the service cannot obliterate their pagan countenance, yet that full tide makes of them a thing dead, though loud in death, like barking pebbles beneath the surf, monoliths beyond the clutch of soul, masks of non-comprehension. For has not the ear inclined to the dance of dead leaves, to the note of birds? Does not the sky droop from the vault of heaven, cowled in tenderness?