Ah! Two Desires Toss About

Wandering Between Two Worlds, One Dead, The Other Powerless To Be Born.

The Interpretations Of Science Do Not Give Us This Intimate Sense Of Objects As The Interpretations Of Poetry Give It; They Appeal To A Limited Faculty, And Not To The Whole Man. It Is Not Linnaeus Or Cavendish Or Cuvier Who Gives Us The True Sense Of Animals, Or Water, Or Plants, Who Seizes Their Secret For Us, Who Makes Us Participate In Their Life; It Is Shakspeare [sic] … Wordsworth … Keats … Chateaubriand … Senancour.

Weary Of Myself, And Sick Of Asking What I Am, And What I Ought To Be, At This Vessel's Prow I Stand, Which Bears Me Forwards, Forwards, O'er The Starlit Sea.

Is It So Small A Thing To Have Enjoyed The Sun, To Have Lived Light In The Sky, To Have Loved, To Have Thought, To Have Done?

Like Driftwood Spares Which Meet And Pass Upon The Boundless Ocean-plain, So On The Sea Of Life, Alas! Man Nears Man, Meets, And Leaves Again.