When I gaze upon the ocean and the troubled sky and wish I’d skill to set it down, preserve the infinite in some finite oils—but that was not my way, was not the path I walked; yet still, it’s all the same. So pale and weak my words are in the face of it. But I have walked down on the beach and made the rock my seat. I asked within myself unto that mute and solemn stone half buried in the sand and dressed richly in green: How like you this, the open air? How like you still, the sea? For as the tide now comes, and as after it surely goes, you stay. You changeless rock, changing betwixt two worlds, cannot you change and make yourself resolved unto one world? But I have come onto this shifting line myself that I might be as you, might set my soul against the changing.
I have no better canvas than myself, and so my eyes must paint the stormy clouds and tossing waves upon my heart; my ears must mark the score and etch the ocean’s roar upon my throbbing soul. Do not forget the little things, the colors of the simple stones; do not forsake the seagull’s mistic cry.
All these were made for thee to love.
Tale Told 