So, Blind To Someone I Must Be.

A Lost But Happy Dream May Shed Its Light Upon Our Waking Hours, And The Whole Day May Be Infected With The Gloom Of A Dreary Or Sorrowful One; Yet Of Neither May We Be Able To Recover A Trace.

And Some Win Peace Who Spend The Skill Of Words To Sweeten Despair Of Finding Consolation Where Life Has But One Dark End.

A Face Peered. All The Grey Night In Chaos Of Vacancy Shone; Nought But Vast Sorrow Was There The Sweet Cheat Gone.

Oh, No Man Knows Through What Wild Centuries Roves Back The Rose.

Without Imagination Of The One Kind Or Of The Other, Mortal Existence Is Indeed A Dreary And Prosaic Business... Illumined By The Imagination, Our Life, Whatever Its Defeats - Is A Never-ending Unforeseen Strangeness And Adventure And Mystery.