The only strength for me is to be found in the sense of a personal presence everywhere, it scarcely matters whether it be called human or divine; a presence which only makes itself felt at first in this and that particular form and feature.... Into this presence we come, not by leaving behind what are usually called earthly things, or by loving them less, but by living more intensely in them, and loving more what is really lovable in them; for it is literally true that this world is everything to us, if only we choose to make it so, if only we "live in the present" because it is eternity....--RICHARD LEWIS NETTLESHIP: _Lectures and Memories_, Vol. I., p. 72. He hath made everything beautiful in its time; He hath also set the world in their heart, and yet so that man cannot find out the work that God hath wrought from the beginning even unto the end....--ECCLES. iii. "Fool," said my muse to me, "look in thy heart and write."--SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. (1) August drew to its sunny close, and Manning and Tressor departed, leaving Paul to superintend the reroofing of old Morley's Mill cottage, the building of an extra poultry house, the laying-out of a new flower bed, the cutting down of a few trees and the letting of an empty cottage. They also left him to write poetry; and whereas, without assistance, he would have cut a poor figure at any of the practical jobs, he felt that he was doing even worse as a poet. September found him, then, alone and perturbed; but October came, heralded with the gleam of crimson and gold banners among the beeches of Chanctonbury, and found him alone and desperate. He was the more overwhelmed by it all as he was totally unprepared. Hitherto his days had been more full than he could manage, for, besides talk and friends and all the incidents of life at Cambridge, he had had his degree for which to work. Hitherto verse had been a refuge, a joy which he had allowed himself with a kind of grim deliberation. He would want to write, feeling that strange, deep, indefinite hunger within him that all who have in any degree the gift of a creative art know so well, and he would permit himself to leave his books and sit by the fire or in the window-seat with a pencil for an hour, a measured hour only. Or hitherto there had been other difficulties in the way, from Donaldson's tramp on the stairs to the disturbing furniture at Claxted--little things, things over which one ought to be able to triumph, but things which ordinarily triumph over us all.