I Saw A Man Pursuing The Horizon

Such An Assemblage Of The Spraddle-legged Men Of The Middle Class, Whose Hands Were Bent And Shoulders Stooped From Delving And Constructing, Had Never Appeared To An Asbury Park Summer Crowd, And The Latter Was Vaguely Amused.

The Voice Of God Whispers In The Heart So Softly That The Soul Pauses, Making No Noise, And Strives For These Melodies, Distant, Sighing, Like Faintest Breath, And All The Being Is Still To Hear.

Everything Is Bicycle.

The Man Had Arrived At That Stage Of Drunkenness Where Affection Is Felt For The Universe.

He Saw That It Was An Ironical Thing For Him To Be Running Thus Toward That Which He Had Been At Such Pains To Avoid.