My Death Is Very Near To Me,

Truly Wealth, Which Men Spend All Their Lives In Acquiring, Is A Valueless Thing At The Last.

And Now Let Us Love And Take That Which Is Given Us, And Be Happy; For In The Grave There Is No Love And No Warmth, Nor Any Touching Of The Lips. Nothing Perchance, Or Perchance But Bitter Memories Of What Might Have Been.

It Is Far. But There Is No Journey Upon This Earth That A Man May Not Make If He Sets His Heart To It. There Is Nothing, Umbopa, That He Cannot Do, There Are No Mountains He May Not Climb, There Are No Deserts He Cannot Cross; Save A Mountain And A A Desert Of Which You Are Spared The Knowledge, If Love Leads Him And He Holds His Life In His Hand Counting It As Nothing, Ready To Keep It Or To Lose It As Providence May Order.

The Sky Aft Was Dark As Pitch, But The Moon Still Shone Brightly Ahead Of Us And Lit Up The Blackness. Beneath Its Sheen A Huge White-topped Breaker, Twenty Feet High Or More, Was Rushing On To Us. It Was On The Break-the Moon Shone On Its Crest And Tipped Its Foam With Light. On It Rushed Beneath The Inky Sky, Driven By The Awful Squall Behind It.

We Were Like Confirmed Opium-eaters: In Our Moments Of Reason We Well Knew The Deadly Nature Of Our Pursuit, But We Certainly Were Not Prepared To Abandon Its Terrible Delights.