“Flight, oh, flight! oh, dusk, the hour of poetry. For poetry was contemplative waiting in the twilight, poetry was the night-foreboding abyss, was lingering on the threshold, was at once participation and loneliness, was intermingling and the fear of intermingling, unwanton in intermingling, as unwanton as the dream of the slumbering herds and yet the fear of wantoness; oh, poetry was anticipation but not quite departure, yet it was an enduring farewell.”
