When we fill each other’s cups with wine, Many mountain flowers bloom. One drink; another; and another— I am drunk; I want to sleep, So you had better go. Come tomorrow morning, hugging your harp, For then, I shall have something to tell you. Mountain-Top Temple Night, and rest in the mountain-top temple. I lift my hands, and knock at the stars. I dare not talk loudly, For I fear to surprise the people in the sky. Push-Face jh. I It is a great thing to be living when an age passes. If you are born in an age in which every impact of its expression is a pain, there is a beautiful poetic vengeance in being permitted to watch that age destroy itself. What other age could have so offended? Instead of pursuing the real business of life, which is to live, men have turned all their denials and repressions into the accumulation of unessential knowledge and the making of indiscriminate things. Other ages have taken out their repressions in religious frenzies, but this age has taken everything out in motion. It is an elementary fact of sex knowledge that rhythmic motion is part of sex expression. Isn’t it ironical and immoral that those nations which have prided themselves most on their virtue, and have hugged tightest to themselves the puritanic ideal, are the ones that have gone maddest over motion? America, being the most virtuous, obviously has the least sense of humor and has exceeded herself. From the cradle to the turbine engine, from the rocking-chair to the spinnings and whirlings of a Coney Island, she has become a national mechanical perpetual whirling Dervish. The wheels became rollers which have rolled life out thin and flat. Then Art cried out with all her voices. In the last few years we have had a return to the beginnings of all the Arts. If there ever comes a time in the world when men will give their attention to the life of Art and understand its movement, they will find it alert and inevitable. Life would follow it trustingly if it were not for the intrusions and hindrances of men. The Thing had happened: Life had made its protest through Art. But this consciousness never reached the unendowed mind. It (the unendowed mind) forced Life to avenge itself by flying into war. II “I pray God,” said President Wilson, “that the outcome of this struggle may be that every element of difference amongst us will be obliterated—The spirit of this people is already united, and when suffering and sacrifice have completed this union, men will no longer speak of any lines either of race or association cutting athwart the great body of this nation.”