THOUGHTS FROM WRITINGS 



wood, and sea ; the sea beats in endless 

 waves, which first began to undulate a 

 thousand, thousand years ago, starting 

 from the other rim of Time ; the green 

 leaves repeat the beauty that gladdened 

 man in ancient days. But for them- 

 selves they are, and not for us. Their 

 glory fills the mind with rapture, but for 

 a while, and it learns that they are, like 

 carven idols, wholly careless and in- 

 different to our fate. Then is the valley 

 incomplete, and the void sad ! Its hills 

 speak of death as well as of life, and we 

 know that for man there is nothing on 

 earth really but man ; the human species 

 owns and possesses nothing but its 

 species. When I saw this I turned with 

 threefold concentration of desire and 

 love towards that expression of hope 

 which is called beauty, such as is worked 

 in marble here. For I think beauty is 

 truthfully an expression of hope, and 

 that is why it is so enthralling— because 



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