A Man Is A Very Small Thing,

I Think That Travel Comes From Some Deep Urge To See The World, Like The Urge That Brings Up A Worm In An Irish Bog To See The Moon When It Is Full.

There Is No Beauty Or Romance Or Mystery In The Sea Except For The Men That Sail Abroad Upon It, And Those Who Stay At Home And Dream Of Them.

Everyone's Future Is, In Reality, Uncertain And Full Of Unknown Treasures From Which All May Draw Unguessed Prizes.

And At That Moment A Wind Came Out Of The Northwest, And Entered The Woods And Bared The Golden Branches, And Danced Over The Downs, And Led A Company Of Scarlet And Golden Leaves, That Had Dreaded This Day But Danced Now It Had Come; And Away With A Riot Of Dancing And Glory Of Colour, High In The Light Of The Sun That Had Set From The Sight Of The Fields, Went Wind And Leaves Together.

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.