In the distance the street noises died down, mauve shadows stretched out before the peristyles of the temples, and on the other side of the gulf, the base of the mountains, the olive orchards and patches of yellow waste land rippled indefinitely and merged in a bluish haze; there was not a sound to be heard, the air was heavy and unspeakably oppressive.
“When the shy star goes forth in heaven
All maidenly, disconsolate,
Hear you amid the drowsy even
One who is singing by your gate.
His song is softer than the dew
And he is come to visit you.
O bend no more in revery
When he at eventide is calling.
Nor muse: Who may this singer be
Whose song about my heart is falling?
Know you by this, the lover’s chant,
‘Tis I that am your visitant.”
James Joyce | Chamber Music