“O wind，
If winter comes， can spring be far behind？”
They knew that the f？lux is equal to the ref？lux； that to interrupt with unlawful recurrences， out of time， is to weaken the impulse of onset and retreat； the sweep and impetus of movement. To live in constant efforts after an equal life， whether the equality be sought in mental production， or in spiritual sweetness， or in the joy of the senses， is to live without either rest or full activity. The souls of certain of the saints， being singularly simple and single， have been in the most complete subjection to the law of periodicity. Ecstasy and desolation visited them by seasons. They endured， during spaces of vacant time， the interior loss of all for which they had sacrif？iced the world. They rejoiced in the uncovenanted beatitude of sweetness alighting in their hearts. Like them are the poets whom， three times or ten times in the course of a long life， the Muse has approached， touched， and forsaken. And yet hardly like them； not always so docile， nor so wholly prepared for the departure， the brevity， of the golden and irrevocable hour. Few poets have fully recognised the metrical absence of their Muse. For full recognition is expressed in one only way — silence.