He felt he had lost it for good, he knew what it was to have been in communication with her, and to be cast off again. In misery, his heart like a heavy stone, he went about unliving.

Not that the Red Indian will ever possess the broad lands of America. At least I presume not. But his ghost will.

Only the flow matters; live and let live, love and let love. There is no point in love.

The day of the absolute is over, and we're in for the strange gods once more.

Oh, for the wonder that bubbles into my soul.

What is the knocking? What is the knocking at the door in the night? It is somebody who wants to do us harm. No, no, it is the three strange angels. Admit them, admit them.

The mystery of the evening-star brilliant in silence and distance between the downward-surging plunge of the sun and the vast, hollow seething of inpouring night. The magnificence of the watchful morning-star, that watches between the night and the day, the gleaming clue to the two opposites.