I Have A Feeling That

My Love Was Both Humble And Audacious, Like That Of A Page For His Lady.

The Air Was Cold To The Lungs, The Long Grass Dripping Wet, And The Herbs On It Gave Out Their Spiced Astringent Scent. In A Little While On All Sides The Cicada Would Begin To Sing. The Grass Was Me , And The Air, The Distant Invisible Mountains Were Me, The Tired Oxen Were Me. I Breathed With The Slight Night-wind In The Thorn Trees.

To Me, The Explanation Of Life Seems To Be Its Melody, Its Pattern. And I Feel In Life Such An Infinite, Truly Inconceivable Fantasy.

I Will Not Let Thee Go, Except Thou Bless Me.

Here And There, In Some Older Houses, Old Faded Daguerreotypes Still Hang On The Walls... They Seem To Us To Be Very Simple... Compared With The Artistic And Skillful Portraits Made In Later Days... Here Was A Photograph That At One Time Had Been The Last Word, A Very Modern Portrait... Today It Is Just A Part Of Cultural History. The Small Yellowed Surface Has Acquired Depth, An Admonishing Perspective. We Hold In Our Hand A Symbol Of The Structure And Ideology Of An Epoch.