Still ships of dreams. Enchantment lies amid 

 Waters, the emerald glooms of pine and melancholy 

 spruce, when a dream-world forest under- 

 neath mirrors the last sunset-gold on bronze 

 cones, and enfolds the one white wandering 

 cloud miraculously stayed at last between two 

 columnar green spires, flawless as sculptured 

 jade. 



Is this because, in the wilderness, we re- 

 cover something of what we have lost ? . . . 

 because we newly find ourselves, as though 

 surprised into an intimate relationship of 

 which we have been unaware or have in- 

 differently ignored ? What a long way the 

 ancestral memory has to go, seeking, like a 

 pale sleuth-hound among obscure dusks and 

 forgotten nocturnal silences, for the lost trails 

 of the soul. It is not we only, you and I, 

 who look into the still waters of the wilder- 

 ness and lonely places, and are often dimly 

 perplext, are often troubled we know not how 

 or why : some forgotten reminiscence in us is 

 aroused, some memory not our own but yet 

 our heritage is perturbed, footsteps that have 

 immemorially sunk in ancient dust move 

 furtively along obscure corridors in our brain, 

 the ancestral hunter or fisher awakes, the 

 primitive hillman or woodlander communicates 

 again with old forgotten intimacies and the 



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