Journey To The End Of Day, Come

..she Had That Brand Of Pragmatism That Would Find Her The First Brewing Tea After Armageddon.

Well, It Was Most Likely Too Late; There Would Not Be Time For Me To Flagellate Myself For Every Dishonorable Deed In That List, Nor Any Chance To Make Good The Harms I’d Done. Minor Harms, To Be Sure, In The Scheme Of Things; But Large Enough To Regret.

Memory, Prophecy, And Fantasy— The Past, The Future, And The Dreaming Moment Between— Are All In One Country, Living One Immortal Day. To Know That Is Wisdom. To Use It Is The Art.

Spring, If It Lingers More Than A Week Beyond Its Span, Starts To Hunger For Summer To End The Days Of Perpetual Promise. Summer In Its Turn Soon Begins To Sweat For Something To Quench Its Heat, And The Mellowest Of Autumns Will Tire Of Gentility At Last, And Ache For A Quick Sharp Frost To Kill Its Fruitfulness. Even Winter — The Hardest Season, The Most Implacable — Dreams, As February Creeps On, Of The Flame That Will Presently Melt It Away. Everything Tires With Time, And Starts To Seek Some Opposition, To Save It From Itself.

I'm A Poet,' The Young Man Said, 'and It's My Job To Remember The Sadness Of Things.