God Screens Us Evermore From Premature Ideas.

Anger Is That Powerful Internal Force That Blows Out The Light Of Reason.

Crossing A Bare Common, In Snow Puddles At Twilight, Under A Clouded Sky, Without Having In My Thoughts Any Occurrence Of Special Good Fortune, I Have Enjoyed Perfect Exhilaration. I Am Glad To The Brink Of Fear.

We Swim, Day By Day, On A River Of Delusions, And Are Effectually Amused With Houses And Towns In The Air, Of Which The Men Aboutus Are Dupes. But Life Is A Sincerity.

We May Climb Into The Thin And Cold Realm Of Pure Geometry And Lifeless Science, Or Sink Into That Of Sensation. Between These Extremes Is The Equator Of Life, Of Thought, Or Spirit, Or Poetry,--a Narrow Belt.

The Wonder Is Always New That Any Sane Man Can Be A Sailor.