It is never the thing but the version of the thing.
You like it under the trees in autumn, because everything is half dead. The wind moves like a cripple among the leaves and repeats words without menaing.
The exceeding brightness of this early sun Makes me conceive how dark I have become.
Conceptions are artificial. Perceptions are essential.
It must be this rhapsody or none, The rhapsody of things as they are.
Yet there is no spring in Florida, neither in boskage perdu, nor on the nunnery beaches.