After all, what is every man? A horde of ghosts – like a Chinese nest of boxes – oaks that were acorns that were oaks. Death lies behind us, not in front – in our ancestors, back and back until...

It was this mystery, bereft now of all fear, and this beauty together that made life the endless, changing and yet changeless, thing it was. And yet mystery and loveliness alike were really only appreciable with one's legs, as it were, dangling down over into the grave.

Who said, 'All Time's delightHath she for narrow bed;Life's troubled bubble broken'? ---That's what I said.

And some win peace who spend The skill of words to sweeten despair Of finding consolation where Life has but one dark end.