But By The Time That I Had

The Air Was Cold To The Lungs, The Long Grass Dripping Wet, And The Herbs On It Gave Out Their Spiced Astringent Scent. In A Little While On All Sides The Cicada Would Begin To Sing. The Grass Was Me , And The Air, The Distant Invisible Mountains Were Me, The Tired Oxen Were Me. I Breathed With The Slight Night-wind In The Thorn Trees.

The Best Of My Nature Reveals Itself In Play, And Play Is Sacred.

One May Take Many Liberties With God Which One Cannot Take With Men.

I Have Read True Piety Defined As: Loving One’s Destiny Unconditionally – And There Is Something In It. That Is To Say: I Think That In A Way This Sort Of “religiousness” Is The Condition For Real Happiness.

The Cure For Anything Is Salt Water: Sweat, Tears Or The Sea.