like a flower that dawn-winds shake,
and sigh with joy the odours of its meaning.
It could be a sign that one has reached a certain age, or, on the other hand, a certain stage of perception, to wonder whether a cryptozoological creature might appear. Or it could be the edge of utter madness.
When I was challenged, the other day, to ask the permission of the unicorns to appear to me, I paused for a moment, and whispered, "If you would like to appear to me, I would be very grateful." And then I promptly forgot about this.
Yesterday, the alarm clock beeped insistently in the early hours; I tapped it, and hugged the pillow for a little while longer.
A very vivid image appeared to me, of a young girl with wild eyes, whose hair was streaming all akimobo in an unseen wind, a la Cosette. The sense was that she was an embodiment of inner innocence.
Following in the wake of this girl, a unicorn -- oh delight! made its appearance. The unicorn was silvery-translucent, iridescent, and with a pale crescent-moon glow.
And yet, a subtle and honorable brand of magic manages to leave its footprints behind in every room.
I am always hearing. . . the sound of a far off song. I do not exactly know where it is, or what it means; and I don't hear much of it, only the odour of its music, as it were, flitting across the great billows of the ocean outside this air in which I make such a storm; but what I do hear, is quite enough to make me able to bear the cry from the drowning ship. So it would you if you could hear it.
--George Macdonald (At the Back of the North Wind)