In Relating The Circumstances Which Have Led

That Is Not Dead Which Can Eternal Lie, And With Strange Aeons Even Death May Die.

There Be Those Who Say That Things And Places Have Souls, And There Be Those Who Say They Have Not; I Dare Not Say, Myself, But I Will Tell Of The Street.

It Was From The Artists And Poets That The Pertinent Answers Came, And I Know That Panic Would Have Broken Loose Had They Been Able To Compare Notes.

Mid-summer ... When The Alchemy Of Nature Transmutes The Sylvan Landscape To One Vivid And Almost Homogeneous Mass Of Green; When The Senses Are Well-nigh Intoxicated With The Surging Seas Of Moist Verdure And The Subtly Indefinable Odours Of The Soil And The Vegetation. In Such Surroundings The Mind Loses Its Perspective; Time And Space Become Trivial And Unreal, And Echoes Of A Forgotten Prehistoric Past Beat Insistently Upon The Enthralled Consciousness.

At Night, When The Objective World Has Slunk Back Into Its Cavern And Left Dreamers To Their Own, There Come Inspirations And Capabilities Impossible At Any Less Magical And Quiet Hour. No One Knows Whether Or Not He Is A Writer Unless He Has Tried Writing At Night.