He Found In The World Without As

Our Civilization, Bequeathed To Us By Fierce Adventurers, Eaters Of Meat And Hunters, Is So Full Of Hurry And Combat, So Busy About Many Things Which Perhaps Are Of No Importance, That It Cannot But See Something Feeble In A Civilization Which Smiles As It Refuses To Make The Battlefield The Test Of Excellence.

If There Is Any Difficulty In What I Write, It Is Because Of The Material I Use. The Thought Is Always Simple.

The Romantic Temper, So Often And So Grievously Misinterpreted And Not More By Others Than By Its Own, Is An Insecure, Unsatisfied, And Impatient Temper Which Sees No Fit Abode Here For Its Ideals And Chooses Therefore To Behold Them Under Insensible Figures. As A Result Of This Choice It Comes To Disregard Certain Limitations. Its Figures Are Blown To Wild Adventures, Lacking The Gravity Of Solid Bodies, And The Mind That Has Conceived Them Ends By Disowning Them.

The Philosophic Mind Inclines Always To An Elaborate Life--the Life Of Goethe Or Of Leonardo Da Vinci; But The Life Of The Poet Isintense--the Life Of Blake Or Of Dante--taking Into Its Centre The Life That Surrounds It And Flinging It Abroad Again Amid Planetary Music.

Her Lips Touched His Brain As They Touched His Lips, As Though They Were A Vehicle Of Some Vague Speech And Between Them He Felt An Unknown And Timid Preasure, Darker Than The Swoon Of Sin, Softer Than Sound Or Odor.