A Word Is A Bud

Imagination Is A Tree. It Has The Integrative Virtues Of A Tree. It Is Root And Boughs. It Lives Between Earth And Sky. It Lives In The Earth And The Wind. The Imagined Tree Imperceptibly Becomes A Cosmological Tree, The Tree Which Epitomises A Universe, Which Makes A Universe.

The Repose Of Sleep Refreshes Only The Body. It Rarely Sets The Soul At Rest.

Sometimes The House Of The Future Is Better Built, Lighter And Larger Than All The Houses Of The Past, So That The Image Of The Dream House Is Opposed To That Of The Childhood Home. Late In Life, With Indomitable Courage, We Continue To Say That We Are Going To Do What We Have Not Yet Done: We Are Going To Build A House. This Dream House May Be Merely A Dream Of Ownership, The Embodiment Of Everything That Is Considered Convenient, Comfortable, Healthy, Sound, Desirable, By Other People. It Must Therefore Satisfy Both Pride And Reason, Two Irreconcilable Terms.

In Contrast To A Dream A Reverie Cannot Be Recounted. To Be Communicated, It Must Be Written, Written With Emotion And Taste, Being Relived All The More Strongly Because It Is Being Written Down. Here, We Are Touching The Realm Of Written Love. It Is Going Out Of Fashion, But The Benefits Remain. There Are Still Souls For Whom Love Is The Contact Of Two Poetries, The Fusion Of Two Reveries.

Rilke Wrote: 'these Trees Are Magnificent, But Even More Magnificent Is The Sublime And Moving Space Between Them, As Though With Their Growth It Too Increased.