I think it is something wonderful like color and sound, and something mystical like fragrance and flowers. And something incredible like air and wind, And something of grey magic like rain; It is faded deserts and the unceasing sea; It is the moving stars; It is the orange sun stepping through blue curtains of sky, And the rose sun dropping through black trees; It is green storms running across greenness, And gold rose petals spilled by the moon on dark water; It is snow and mist and clouds of color, It is tree gardens and painted birds; It is leaves of autumn and grasses of spring; It is flower forests and the petals of stars; It is morning—yellow mornings, green mornings, red mornings, gold mornings, silver mornings, sun mornings, mist mornings, mornings of dew; It is night—white nights, green nights, grey nights, purple nights, blue nights, moon nights, rain nights, nights that burn; It is waking in the first of the morning, It is the deep adventure of sleep; It is lights on rivers and lights on pavements; It is boulevards bordered with flowers of stone; It is poetry and Japanese prints and the actor on a stage; It is music; It is dreams that could not happen; It is emotion for the sake of emotion; It is life for the sake of living; It is silence; It is the unknowable; It is eternity; It is death. And only artists know these things. The Zeppelins Over London RICHARD ALDINGTON ... The war saps all one’s energy. It seems impossible to do any creative work in the midst of all this turmoil and carnage. Of course you know that we had the Zeppelins over London? Let me give you my version of the affair.