The Adventure Of The Sun Is The

The Creatures With Whom We Share The Planet And Whom, In Our Arrogance, We Wrongly Patronize For Being Lesser Forms, They Are Not Brethren, They Are Not Underlings, They Are Other Nations, Caught With Ourselves In The Net Of Life And Time, Fellow Prisoners Of The Splendour And Travail Of The Earth.

A Garden Is The Mirror Of A Mind. It Is A Place Of Life, A Mystery Of Green Moving To The Pulse Of The Year, And Pressing On And Pausing The Whole To Its Own Inherent Rhythms.

If There Is One Thing Clear About The Centuries Dominated By The Factory And The Wheel, It Is That Although The Machine Can Make Everything From A Spoon To A Landing-craft, A Natural Joy In Earthly Living Is Something It Never Has And Never Will Be Able To Manufacture.

For A Moment Of Night We Have A Glimpse Of Ourselves And Of Our World Islanded In A Stream Of Stars - Pilgrims Of Mortality, Voyaging Between Horizons Across The Eternal Seas Of Space And Time.

The World Today Is Sick To Its Thin Blood For Lack Of Elemental Things, For Fire Before The Hands, For Water Welling From The Earth, For Air, For The Dear Earth Itself Underfoot. In My World Of Beach And June These Elemental Presences Lived And Had Their Being.