THOUGHTS FROM WRITINGS 



are still mysterious; they cannot be 

 written; they require the inarticulate 

 sign of the magician. Let us not out- 

 live love in our days, and come to look 

 back with sorrow on those times. 

 You have seen the ships upon the sea ; 

 they sail hither and thither thousands of 

 miles. Do they find aught equal to love? 

 Can they bring back precious gems to 

 rival it from the rich south ? 

 The reapers have been in the corn these 

 thousand years, the miners in the earth, 

 the toilers in the city ; in all the labour 

 and long-suffering is there anything 

 like unto love? Any reward or profit 

 in the ships, the mines, the ware- 

 houses? 



What are the institutions of man, the 

 tawdry state, the false law, the sub- 

 sidised superstition, and poor morality, 

 that pale shadow of truth — what are 

 these by love ? 



Could but love stay, could but love 



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