My dreams stretch into the future. I see myself a singer of simple songs, a laureate of the under-dog. I will write books, a score of them. I will voyage far and wide. I will . . .
Dreams are dangerous.
They waste the time one should spend in making them come true. Yet when we do make them come true, we find the vision sweeter than the reality. I have in mind one old chap who used to herd the sheep on my uncle's farm. He did not seem to heed, his face Was tranquil as the evening skies. And yet he seemed to be content.