Here the Frenchman, Spaniard, and Englishman all passed, leaving each his legend; and a brilliant and more or less feudal civilization with its arist… - Hervey Allen

Between the villages of Aubière and Romagnat in the ancient Province of Auvergne there is an old road that comes suddenly over the top of a high hill. To stand south of this ridge looking up at the highway flowing over the skyline is to receive one of those irrefutable impressions from landscape which requires more than a philosopher to explain. In this case it is undoubtedly, for some reason, one of exalted expectation.

Christ Jesus, when I come to die </br> Grant me a clean, sweet, summer sky, </br> Without the mad wind's panther cry. </br> Send me a little garden breeze </br> To gossip in magnolia trees; </br> For I have heard, these fifty years, </br> Confessions muttered at my ears, </br> Till every mumble of the wind </br> Is like tired voices that have sinned.

What is even a wise book but a blast from the lungs made visible to the eyes?