Man Is Dragged Hither And Thither, At

Lights Come And Go In The Night Sky. Men, Troubled At Last By The Things They Build, May Toss In Their Sleep And Dream Bad Dreams, Or Lie Awake While The Meteors Whisper Greenly Overhead. But Nowhere In All Space Or On A Thousand Worlds Will There Be Men To Share Our Loneliness.

Choices, More Choices Than We Like Afterward To Believe, Are Made Far Backward In The Innocence Of Childhood.

Every Time We Walk Along A Beach Some Ancient Urge Disturbs Us So That We Find Ourselves Shedding Shoes And Garments Or Scavenging Among Seaweed And Whitened Timbers Like The Homesick Refugees Of A Long War... Mostly The Animals Understand Their Roles, But Man, By Comparison, Seems Troubled By A Message That, It Is Often Said, He Cannot Quite Remember Or Has Gotten Wrong... Bereft Of Instinct, He Must Search Continually For Meanings... Man Was A Reader Before He Became A Writer, A Reader Of What Coleridge Once Called The Mighty Alphabet Of The Universe.

Man Would Not Be Man If His Dreams Did Not Exceed His Grasp... If I Remember The Sunflower Forest It Is Because From Its Hidden Reaches Man Arose. The Green World Is His Sacred Center. In Moments Of Sanity He Must Still Seek Refuge There.

If It Should Turn Out That We Have Mishandled Our Own Lives As Several Civilizations Before Us Have Done, It Seems A Pity That We Should Involve The Violet And The Tree Frog In Our Departure.