How might you measure men beneath our skies? The shear depth of the human heart and her capacity for humbleness?Like a scientific fraction huh, but I am born of these times so forgive me that. Under this grey skied dream which has already been, already dreamt. Already past? Might everything be just hindsight? Already known gone faded the sun too, so nothing like that to be worried about? AndEngland when did she fall or might she never have begun? Withered earth before the withered Sun? Your forever field will forever be in my heart; alas here I am bold content and never knowing.
Samuel J Dixey, An evening in Autumn: The unbegotten procession
an-evening-in-autumn, prose, samuel-j-dixey