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Already the solemn day of the Most Holy Lady of Flowers191 was

approaching; the weather was lovely, the hour early; the clear

sky was extended about the earth like a calm, hanging,

concavo-convex sea. A few stars shone from its depths, like

pearls from the sea bottom, seen through waves; on one side a

little white cloud, all alone, drifted along and buried its wings

in the azure, like the vanishing pinions of a guardian angel,

who, detained through the night by the prayers of men, has been

belated, and is hastening to return to his fellow-denizens of

heaven.