THOUGHTS FROM WRITINGS 



earth, in her splendour of life, yields 

 a new thought with every petal. The 

 hours when the mind is absorbed by 

 beauty are the only hours when we really 

 live, so that the longer we can stay 

 among these things so much the more 

 is snatched from the inevitable Time. 

 Let the shadow advance upon the dial 

 — I can watch it with equanimity while 

 it is there to be watched. It is only 

 when the shadow is not there, when the 

 clouds of winter cover it, that the dial 

 is terrible. The invisible shadow goes 

 on and steals from us. But now, while 

 I can see the shadow of the tree and 

 watch it slowly gliding along the surface 

 of the grass, it is mine. These are the 

 only hours that are not wasted — these 

 hours that absorb the soul and fill it 

 with beauty. This is real life, and all 

 else is illusion, or mere endurance. 

 Does this reverie of flowers and water- 

 fall and song form an ideal, a human 



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