In my declining years when no more, or merely will my formerly firm limbs take me there I should choose to wander, but failing to comply with the pace of my still fresh fancy’s wonderings, I will renovated recall that divine intersection of my youth, when by some celestial summons I turned over many a morning to the Eastern Beaches Coastal Walk between Bondi and Coogee. The oneness and natural superfluity enjoyed upon my trails, I can not frame. The soul of my art is in arresting the state of man, whose distresses and gladnesses I can tune my instruments to, and thence play to the traveller an accustomed song. For my part, I strain to say the birds, the rock, pools and seas upon which my faculties most rest, are this or that, but of man, verses beset. Often I would hasten myself to a bench where lovers convene and poets paint, to reclaim and map my thoughts before they are among the Constellations of my mind, lost always. One such rescued consideration is this:

He is the best of man who, throughout the seasons of his life, gives to the pursuit of physical prayer his rising hour; he knows the value of man, and up with him after, a gapers borders may go.

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