Like a pilgrim, or a spiritual vagrant, crisscrossing the
country-always rolling on the very fabric of the continent:
westwards and eastwards, to the eternal oceans, and from the
northern vast plains down through the Appalachian, to the deep
recesses of the lowlands, to the swamps-infallibly enough I would
always return to my dwelling in Princeton. Many a time the lonely
night was devoted to the contemplation of the moon of New Jersey,
as I licked the wounds of a sore soul. I always wondered, how
different that pale, ghostly circle of a moon was, from the one I
encountered elsewhere above the magnificent land that I had been
scampering about, and from the lost moon of my childhood. Yet, with
adulthood-or maturity-seeing at last the rise and fall of earthling
matters, I would flinch, my heart recoiling, as from something
unpleasant. Thus, through the jaundiced, estranged buoy in the sky,
I would recall past memories, and hold out my quivering hand to
reach over to the always-receding mysteries of existence.
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