Contrast Is The Dramatist's Method.

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.

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.

Logic, Like Whiskey, Loses Its Beneficial Effect When Taken In Too Large Quantities.

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.

Of Pure Poetry There Are Two Kinds, That Which Mirrors The Beauty Of The World In Which Our Bodies Are, And That Which Builds The More Mysterious Kingdoms Where Geography Ends And Fairyland Begins, With Gods And Heroes At War, And The Sirens Singing Still, And Alph Going Down To The Darkness From Xanadu.