How Beautiful Are Dreams! In Dreams The

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.

Of Pure Poetry There Are Two Kinds, That Which Mirrors The Beauty Of The World In Which Our Bodies Are, And That Which Builds The More Mysterious Kingdoms Where Geography Ends And Fairyland Begins, With Gods And Heroes At War, And The Sirens Singing Still, And Alph Going Down To The Darkness From Xanadu.

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.

And She Would Not Hold Back His Limbs When His Heart Was Gone To The Woods, For It Is Ever The Way Of Witches With Any Two Things To Care For The More Mysterious Of The Two.