It Was The Hour When

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.

Yet In The Blood Of Man There Is A Tide, An Old Sea-current, Rather, That Is Somehow Akin To The Twilight, Which Brings Him Rumours Of Beauty From However Far Away, As Drift-wood Is Found At Sea From Islands Not Yet Discovered; And This Spring-tide Or Current That Visits The Blood Of Man Comes From The Fabulous Quarter Of His Lineage, From The Legendary, Of Old; It Takes Him Out To The Woodlands, Out To The Hills; He Listens To Ancient Song.

If One Who Looked From A Tower For A New Star, Watching For Years The Same Part Of The Sky, Suddenly Saw It (quite By Chance While Thinking Of Other Things), And Knew It For The Star For Which He Had Hoped, How Many Millions Of Men Would Never Care?

Contrast Is The Dramatist's Method.

How Beautiful Are Dreams! In Dreams The Dead May Live, Even The Long Dead And The Very Silent.