I Don't In Any Sense Think Of

And The Smell Of The Library Was Always The Same - The Musty Odour Of Old Clothes Mixed With The Keener Scent Of Unwashed Bodies, Creating What The Chief Librarian Had Once Described As 'the Steam Of The Social Soup.'

The English Have Always Been Greedy For News Of Times Past, With That Mixture Of Fatalism And Melancholy Which Is Part Of The National Character.

There Is A Word In Old English Which Belongs Wholly To That Civilization - "dustsceawung," Meaning Contemplation Of Dust. It Is A True Image Of The Anglo-saxon Mind, Or At Least An Echo Of That Consciousness Which Considered Transcience And Loss To Be Part Of The Human Estate; It Was A World In Which Life Was Uncertain And The Principal Diety Was Fate Or Destiny Or "wyrd."

No Poet Is Ever Completely Lost. He Has The Secret Of His Childhood Safe With Him, Like Some Secret Cave In Which He Can Kneel. And, When We Read His Poetry, We Can Join Him There.

I Am In The Pitte, But I Have Gone So Deep That I Can See The Brightness Of The Starres At Noon.