It Is Very Seldom That The Same

Yet In The Blood Of Man There Is A Tide, An Old Sea-current, Rather, That Is Somehow Akin To The Twilight, Which Brings Him Rumours Of Beauty From However Far Away, As Drift-wood Is Found At Sea From Islands Not Yet Discovered; And This Spring-tide Or Current That Visits The Blood Of Man Comes From The Fabulous Quarter Of His Lineage, From The Legendary, Of Old; It Takes Him Out To The Woodlands, Out To The Hills; He Listens To Ancient Song.

There Is No Beauty Or Romance Or Mystery In The Sea Except For The Men That Sail Abroad Upon It, And Those Who Stay At Home And Dream Of Them.

It Was The Hour When Gauze-winged Insects Are Born That Only Live For A Day.

I Have Lived To See That Being Seventeen Is No Protection Against Becoming Seventy, But To Know This Needs The Experience Of A Lifetime, For No Imagination Copes With It.

Humanity, Let Us Say, Is Like People Packed In A Automobile Which Is Traveling Downhill Without Lights At A Terrific Speed And Driven By A Four-year-old Child. The Signposts Along The Way Are All Marked "progress."