Then I Perceived, What I Had Never

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.

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.

How Beautiful Are Dreams! In Dreams The Dead May Live, Even The Long Dead And The Very Silent.

Modern Poets Are Bells Of Lead. They Should Tinkle Melodiously But Usually They Just Klunk.

Come With Me, Ladies And Gentlemen Who Are In Any Wise Weary Of London: Come With Me: And Those That Tire At All Of The World We Know: For We Have New Worlds Here.