Sorrow Is One Of The Vibrations That

How Could There Be Any Question Of Acquiring Or Possessing, When The One Thing Needful For A Man Is To Become - To Be At Last, And To Die In The Fullness Of His Being.

Sitting In The Flickering Light Of The Candles On This Kerchief Of Sand, On This Village Square, We Waited In The Night. We Were Waiting For The Rescuing Dawn - Or For The Moors. Something, I Know Not What, Lent This Night A Savor Of Christmas. We Told Stories, We Joked, We Sang Songs. In The Air There Was That Slight Fever That Reigns Over A Gaily Prepared Feast. And Yet We Were Infinitely Poor. Wind, Sand, And Stars. The Austerity Of Trappists. But On This Badly Lighted Cloth, A Handful Of Men Who Possessed Nothing In The World But Their Memories Were Sharing Invisible Riches.

Defeat Is A Thing Of Weariness, Of Incoherence, Of Boredom, And Above All Futility.

She Knew This Man's Smile, His Gentle Ways Of Love, But Not His Godlike Fury In The Storm. She Might Snare Him In A Fragile Net Of Music, Love And Flowers, But, At Each Departure, He Would Break Forth Without, It Seemed To Her, The Least Regret.

Sometimes We Behave As Though There Was Something More Important Than Life. But What?