And say:
'Here is the bourne you seek,
The object of your nameless pilgrimage.'"
The poet's thoughts proceeded far afield, lured by a romantic gleam. Paul read to the end and handed back the sheets.
"You've always expected a good deal from life, haven't you?" he finally commented.
The youth reflected. "I dare say. But life led me on to expect a good deal. If you're born with an imagination, life puts notions into your head."
"But sooner or later people with imaginations must learn to prepare themselves for the meagreness of what life can give. They can't, of course, cease expecting, but they can, while greatly expecting, reconcile themselves to the inevitable little."
The poet shrugged impatiently. "I despise compromise. For me it's everything or nothing."
"What will you do if it's nothing?"
There was no reply.
Paul smoked in silence. Gradually the youth's eyes came round to him again, filled with a new-born doubt. The impatience was gone. "Would you say," he began, "after reading these silly verses, that with me it's likely to end in—nothing? Was that what you meant?"
Paul weighed it. "No. I merely wished to startle you into the thought that some sort of compromise may be inevitable. 'All or nothing' is a brave banner to rally one's forces under—but few men can keep it aloft."
"Life's damnably hard," said the poet, and the remark was obviously more than a platitude.
"Of course it is. That's why I suggested the wisdom of considering its niggardly terms. In that way one to a certain extent disarms life. By yielding on the score
