all the poets from the time of Homer till to- Winter 

 day, and yet that all have dwelled in the same Stars, 

 illusion as to its absolute steadfastness. Never- 

 theless, Homer's 



" Arctos, sole star that never bathes in the ocean wave " 



has both poetic truth and the truth of 

 actuality. 



It is a relief to put aside notes and pen and 

 paper, and to go out and look up into the 

 darkness and silence, to those 'slow-moving 

 palaces of wandering light ' of which one has 

 been writing. How overwhelmingly futile 

 seems not only the poor written word, but 

 even the mysterious pursuit of the far-fathom- 

 ing thought of man. By the sweat of the 

 brow, by the dauntless pride of the mind, we 

 mortal creatures have learned some of the 

 mysteries of the coming and going in infini- 

 tude of these incalculable worlds, of their vast 

 procession from the unknown to the unknown. 

 Then, some night, one stands solitary in the 

 darkness, and feels less than the shadow of a 

 leaf that has passed upon the wind, before 

 these still, cold, inevitable, infinitely remote 

 yet overwhelmingly near Children of Immor- 

 tality. 



3ii 



