There Is No Beauty Or

Everyone's Future Is, In Reality, Uncertain And Full Of Unknown Treasures From Which All May Draw Unguessed Prizes.

And Little He Knew Of The Things That Ink May Do, How It Can Mark A Dead Man's Thought For The Wonder Of Later Years, And Tell Of Happening That Are Gone Clean Away, And Be A Voice For Us Out Of The Dark Of Time, And Save Many A Fragile Thing From The Pounding Of Heavy Ages; Or Carry To Us, Over The Rolling Centuries, Even A Song From Lips Long Dead On Forgotten Hills.

Modern Poets Are Bells Of Lead. They Should Tinkle Melodiously But Usually They Just Klunk.

And You Who Sought For Magic In Your Youth But Desire It Not In Your Age, Know That There Is A Blindness Of Spirit Which Comes From Age, More Black Than The Blindness Of Eye, Making A Darkness About You Across Which Nothing May Be Seen, Or Felt, Or Known, Or In Any Way Apprehended.

A Man Is A Very Small Thing, And The Night Is Very Large And Full Of Wonders.