So that was all over.
Why, why had he obstinately clung to that dream from the weariness of actuality? And now more actuality had robbed him of the dream.
So all these years–since when?–he had been seeing the light of dead stars, long extinguished, yet seemingly still in their appointed places in the heavens.
An immense sadness as of loss invaded his spirit, a vast homesickness for some immutable refuge of the heart far away where faded gardens bloom again, and where live on in unchanging freshness, the dear, dead loves of vanished youth.
— From Dead Stars, Paz Marquez Benitez