The world is full of magic things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper. - William Butler Yeates
I leant upon a coppice gateWhen Frost was spectre-grey, And Winter's dregs made desolateThe weakening eye of day.The tangled bine-stems scored the skyLike strings of broken lyres
Where the sea meets the moon-blanch’d land,Listen! you hear the grating roarOf pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,At their return, up the high strand
One former-Republican's view.
You know that thing — Manhattan was the place for this — when you briskly pass people on the street and catch just a second or two of conversation that snaps you to and leaves you sketching out the rest of their story in your head?
Encountered on my first hike this spring. Words of wisdom from the co-founder of The Atlantic.
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