. . . nature turns a dumb face toward us like a cow. When we read its wonders, we wonder whether we haven't written them ourselves. We are in ferment, but our greatness grows light like a bubble of froth. We sense that existence itself lacks substance; that its heaviness is that of wet air. The sublime . . . ah, the sublime is far off, though we call for its coming. Yes. Life falls shortis never what it should be.