Besides the toss and drag of shells are you shown no proof as to time lost here? Same stamp on every morning. Tattered glass at rub on sunblind margin. No island roofs or goat-skinned rocks. My stars but you are travel-rank! Cracked with offering. Your hands bear what? bow-spray? mast-scrape? Keel, stinging under silver weight. what boats unloads your night? Why do the waves keep you in their shattered cloak? Eyes each upon you creaking pilot, pilot, pilot?
William James, Henry James
Great gift of purple apples! The distant stars, the far-in sugars of their skins. With light in certain shades of the world, autumn of limited use in the world, I could go for a day in the word canteen. In the world outside I have yet to put in. It looks as though the bridges are standing in aquarelle. You know propitious comes of going-forward. Where the horse in mind unfastens earth, fastens thirst to a treelike task.