Into The Space Of One

The Oil And Wine Of Merry Meeting.

A Few Amber Clouds Floated In The Sky Without A Breath Of Air To Move Them. The Horizon Was Of A Fine Golden Tint, Changing Gradually Into A Pure Apple-green, And From That Into The Deep Blue Of The Mid-heaven.

The Tie Which Links Mother And Child Is Of Such Pure And Immaculate Strength As To Be Never Violated, Except By Those Whose Feelings Are Withered By Vitiated Society. Holy, Simple, And Beautiful In Its Construction, It Is The Emblem Of All We Can Imagine Of Fidelity And Truth.

There Is Certainly Something In Angling That Tends To Produce A Serenity Of The Mind.

Poetry Is Evidently A Contagious Complaint.