Yet in the blood of man there is a tide, an old
sea-current, rather, that is somehow akin to the twilight,
which brings him rumours of beauty from however far away,
as driftwood is found at sea from islands not yet
discovered; and this springtide of current that visits the
blood of man comes from the fabulous quarter of his
lineage, from the legendary, of old; it takes him out to
the woodlands, out to the hills; he listens to ancient
song.