“ Dreaming is the poetry of Life, and we must be forgiven if we indulge in it a little. ”
Life calls the tune, we dance.
~ John Galsworthy
It was such a spring day as breathes into a man an ineffable yearning, a painful sweetness, a longing that makes him stand motionless, looking at the leaves or grass, and fling out his arms to embrace he knows not what.
Love is not a hot-house flower, but a wild plant, born of a wet night, born of an hour of sunshine; sprung from wild seed, blown along the road by a wild wind. A wild plant that, when it blooms by chance within the hedge of our gardens, we call a flower; and when it blooms outside we call a weed; but, flower or weed, whose scent and colour are always, wild!
Youth to youth, like the dragon-flies chasing each other, and love like the sun warming them through and through.
