Time, So Complain'd Of, Who

For The Creation Of A Masterwork Of Literature Two Powers Must Concur, The Power Of The Man And The Power Of The Moment, And The Man Is Not Enough Without The Moment.

This Strange Disease Of Modern Life, With Its Sick Hurry, Its Divided Aims.

Most Men Eddy About Here And There-eat And Drink, Chatter And Love And Hate, Gather And Squander, Are Raised Aloft, Are Hurled In The Dust, Striving Blindly, Achieving Nothing; And Then They Die- Perish;-and No One Asks Who Or What They Have Been.

Nature, With Equal Mind, Sees All Her Sons At Play, Sees Man Control The Wind, The Wind Sweep Man Away.

Culture, Then, Is A Study Of Perfection, And Perfection Which Insists On Becoming Something Rather Than In Having Something, In An Inward Condition Of The Mind And Spirit, Not In An Outward Set Of Circumstances.