Happiness, for you we walk on a knife edge. To the eyes you are a flickering light, to the feet, thin ice that cracks; and so may no one touch you who loves you.

“Happiness, for you we walk on a knife edge. To the eyes you are a
flickering light, to the feet, thin ice that cracks…”

I have been judged to be a pessimist but what abyss of ignorance and low egoism is not hidden in one who thinks that Man is the god of himself and that his future can only be triumphant?

There is poetry even in prose, in all the great prose which is not merely utilitarian or didactic: there exist poets who write in prose or at least in more or less apparent prose; millions of poets write verses which have no connection with poetry.

Thin Ice.

Narrative art, the novel, from Murasaki to Proust, has produced great works of poetry.