If One Who Looked From A Tower

And You Who Sought For Magic In Your Youth But Desire It Not In Your Age, Know That There Is A Blindness Of Spirit Which Comes From Age, More Black Than The Blindness Of Eye, Making A Darkness About You Across Which Nothing May Be Seen, Or Felt, Or Known, Or In Any Way Apprehended.

I Think That Travel Comes From Some Deep Urge To See The World, Like The Urge That Brings Up A Worm In An Irish Bog To See The Moon When It Is Full.

Of Pure Poetry There Are Two Kinds, That Which Mirrors The Beauty Of The World In Which Our Bodies Are, And That Which Builds The More Mysterious Kingdoms Where Geography Ends And Fairyland Begins, With Gods And Heroes At War, And The Sirens Singing Still, And Alph Going Down To The Darkness From Xanadu.

Once I Found Out The Secret Of The Universe. I Have Forgotten What It Was, But I Know That The Creator Does Not Take Creation Seriously, For I Remember That He Sat In Space With All His Work In Front Of Him And Laughed.

And She Would Not Hold Back His Limbs When His Heart Was Gone To The Woods, For It Is Ever The Way Of Witches With Any Two Things To Care For The More Mysterious Of The Two.