Phantastes, A Faerie Romance

After they grow up, the men and women are but little together. There is

this peculiar difference between them, which likewise distinguishes the

women from those of the earth. The men alone have arms; the women

have only wings. Resplendent wings are they, wherein they can shroud

themselves from head to foot in a panoply of glistering glory. By these

wings alone, it may frequently be judged in what seasons, and under what

aspects, they were born. From those that came in winter, go great white

wings, white as snow; the edge of every feather shining like the sheen

of silver, so that they flash and glitter like frost in the sun. But

underneath, they are tinged with a faint pink or rose-colour. Those born

in spring have wings of a brilliant green, green as grass; and

towards the edges the feathers are enamelled like the surface of the

grass-blades. These again are white within. Those that are born in

summer have wings of a deep rose-colour, lined with pale gold. And those

born in autumn have purple wings, with a rich brown on the inside. But

these colours are modified and altered in all varieties, corresponding

to the mood of the day and hour, as well as the season of the year; and

sometimes I found the various colours so intermingled, that I could not

determine even the season, though doubtless the hieroglyphic could be

deciphered by more experienced eyes. One splendour, in particular, I

remember--wings of deep carmine, with an inner down of warm gray, around

a form of brilliant whiteness.

She had been found as the sun went down through a low sea-fog, casting

crimson along a broad sea-path into a little cave on the shore, where a

bathing maiden saw her lying.

But though I speak of sun and fog, and sea and shore, the world there

is in some respects very different from the earth whereon men live.

For instance, the waters reflect no forms. To the unaccustomed eye they

appear, if undisturbed, like the surface of a dark metal, only that

the latter would reflect indistinctly, whereas they reflect not at all,

except light which falls immediately upon them. This has a great effect

in causing the landscapes to differ from those on the earth. On

the stillest evening, no tall ship on the sea sends a long wavering

reflection almost to the feet of him on shore; the face of no maiden

brightens at its own beauty in a still forest-well. The sun and moon

alone make a glitter on the surface. The sea is like a sea of death,

ready to ingulf and never to reveal: a visible shadow of oblivion. Yet

the women sport in its waters like gorgeous sea-birds. The men more

rarely enter them.