Mystery Lies Over The Sea. Every Ship

The Last Spectacle Of Which Christian Men Are Likely To Grow Tired Is A Harbour. Centuries Hence There May Be Jumping-off Places For The Stars, And Our Children's Children's And So Forth Children May Regard A Ship As A Creeping Thing Scarcely More Adventurous Than A Worm. Meanwhile, Every Harbour Gives Us A Sense Of Being In Touch, If Not With The Ends Of The Universe, With The Ends Of The Earth.

Were I A Philosopher, I Should Write A Philosophy Of Toys, Showing That Nothing Else In Life Need To Be Taken Seriously, And That Christmas Day In The Company Of Children Is One Of The Few Occasions On Which Men Become Entirely Alive.

It May Be That All Games Are Silly. But Then, So Are Humans.

W. B. Yeats Has Created, If Not A New World, A New Star. He Is Not A Reporter Of Life As It Is, To The Extent That Shakespeare Or Browning Is. One Is Not Quite Certain That His Kingdom Is Of The Green Earth. He Is Like A Man Who Has Seen The Earth Not Directly But In A Crystal.

On The Whole, However, The Critic Is Far Less Of A Professional Faultfinder Than Is Sometimes Imagined. He Is First Of All A Virtue-finder, A Singer Of Praise. He Is Not Concerned With Getting Rid Of Dross Except In So Far As It Hides The Gold. In Other Words, The Destructive Side Of Criticism Is Purely A Subsidiary Affair. None Of The Best Critics Have Been Men Of Destructive Minds. They Are Like Gardeners Whose Business Is More With The Flowers Than With The Weeds.