IS IT BEYOND thee to be glad with the gladness of this rhythm? to be tossed and lost and broken in the whirl of this fearful joy? All things rush on, they stop not, they look not behind, no power can hold them back, they rush on. Keeping steps with that restless, rapid music, seasons come dancing and pass away-colours, tunes, and perfumes pour in endless cascades in the abounding joy that scatters and gives up and dies every moment.
THOU OCEAN of things, they say, in thy dark depths there are pearls and gems without end. Many a diver learned in the sea is seeking for them. But I care not to join in their search. The light that flashes on your surface, the mystery that heaves on your bosom, the music that maddens your waves, and the dance that trips on your foam, are enough for me. If ever I am weary of them, I will plunge into your unfathomed bottom where there is death, or the treasure.
