death, and petrification at forty? Is there a gleam of hope in a change of images?
"He built his house on a rock." At forty, one is justified at least in inquiring whether what looked like a white rock was only a ribbon of foam. There is current an alternate set of images, which takes us out of the graveyard and the stone-quarry and away from the tedious refrain, Requiescat in pace.
OUR LIVES are a bright-flowing mist of days and nights. Our blood is a swift-winding river. Our flesh is a changing flower. There is a season of buds and a season of fruit and a season of wine and perfume. And after the vintage there are memories and dreams.
Is there no kinetic and flowing character—no form imposable upon wind and water: such form as the cloud takes in the West, such color; such shapes as life transiently rests in, rising from seed to blossom? Come, let us make a new set of maxims, not for
