: Herman Melville
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Launching my yawl no more for fairyland, I stick to the piazza
. It is my boxroyal;
and this amphitheatre, my theatre of San Carlo. Yes, the scenery is magical—the
illusion so complete. And Madam Meadow Lark, my prima donna, plays her
grand engagement here; and, drinking in her sunrise note, which, Memnonlike,
seems struck from the golden window, how far from me the weary face behind it.
But, every night, when the curtain falls, truth comes in with darkness. No light
shows from ...