Life, unmeasured and unhurried, takes all the time it seems to need for the development of its animate and inanimate tokens of triumph and travail.
Life is a prodigal sower of the seed that laughs at the harvest, and busies itself with hanging out the stars each night and dusting off the sun for the day.
The life of man is a penny balloon which the wind has blown into the center of things to help celebrate the perpetual snake dance that has neither beginning nor ending.
Andrew Jackson was being piloted toward this earth star hundreds, even thousands, of years before he arrived. Being born, he became, as a poet said, "the omnibus of his ancestors." He was the latest visible emissary to the earth of all that had transpired within his own antecedent line, and much else besides.
Fear, courage, joy and sorrow that he was called upon to confront had never been faced before in the same way that these elements were presented to the baby, the boy, the youth, the man, and the aged one, surfeited with honors, who crept toward the grave in the sweet pastures of his beloved Hermitage and rejoiced that the journey was ended.
