Restoration (1952) To think that any fool may tear by chance the web of when and where. O window in the dark! To think that every brain is on the brink of nameless bliss no brain can bear, unless there be no great surprise -- as when you learn to levitate and, hardly trying, realise -- alone, in a bright room -- that weight is but your shadow, and you rise. My little daughter wakes in tears: She fancies that her bed is drawn into a dimness which appears to be the deep of all her fears but which, in point of fact, is dawn. I know a poet who can strip a William Tell or Golden Pip in one uninterrupted peel miraculously to reveal revolving on his fingertip, a snowball. So I would unrobe, turn inside out, pry open, probe all matter, everything you see, the skyline and its saddest tree, the whole inexplicable globe, to find the true, the ardent core as doctors of old pictures do when, rubbing out a distant door or sooty curtain, they restore the jewel of a bluish view.