At The Still Point, There The Dance

This Is The Feeling For Syllable And Rhythm, Penetrating Far Below The Conscious Levels Of Thought And Feeling, Invigorating Every Word.

A Cold Coming We Had Of It, Just The Worst Time Of The Year For A Journey, And Such A Long Journey: The Ways Deep And The Weather Sharp, The Very Dead Of Winter.

My Nerves Are Bad To-night. Yes, Bad. Stay With Me. 'speak To Me. Why Do You Never Speak? Speak. 'what Are You Thinking Of? What Thinking? What? 'i Never Know What You Are Thinking. Think.

Between The Vision And The Act Lies The Shadow.

The Church Must Be Forever Building, For It Is Forever Decaying Within And Attacked From Without.