strives to grasp the essence of its secret and to profit from its sweet and its bitter, whom the sun of his today does not make forget to think of the night of his tomorrow — so that he makes ready his provision for the coming night, and prepares for it a lamp to light his way, by whose light the desolation of the darkness is dispersed.

Life is a great, teeming sea; its waters rage and its waves clash, and when they touch the bounds of the dry land they fall back, abashed, frightened and terrified at venturing into a place forbidden to them. The sun rises upon its waters and you would take them for pearls scattered upon its surface, their order disturbed only by that perpetual motion among the waves — and that perpetual motion is nothing but a spark of the secret of life. The poets of humanity have marveled at the sea, because their life is like its life: mysterious as its mystery,

turbulent as its turbulence; and the writers have marveled at it likewise, and have gone on recall-ing it, counting up its merits, and attributing to it every glory and every miracle.

To nature, then — abounding in springs and flowers; to the mountains flourishing with trees and birds; to the valleys, where the deep shade and the gentle breeze are; to the banks of the rivers and the shores of the seas. There, in the breadth of open space, between the water and the delicate air, there man enjoys the nature of inspiration and the inspiration of nature; there, where modesty, simplicity, and vigor hover, and plainness and content-ment shine forth; there the poets and authors find what they have long sought, and renew the lost strength of their bodies; there, in the shadow of the humble huts, where the eye sees nothing but water and greenness, splendor and freshness, is revealed the

spirit of Lamartine and Milton and Abu al-'Ala' and Lisan al-Din ibn al-Khatib and the blind poet of Tudela — that poet who, when he opened his famous muwashshah with the words:

Laughing to show pearls, unveiled, a full moon; time was too narrow to hold him, yet my breast contained him

the famous Ibn Baqi tore up his own muwashshah, and the rest of the poets followed him.

To nature, then, where the spirit of the departed writers and poets is revealed, kindling by its revelation the flame of brilliance and genius in our contemporary poets and writers, and stirring the energies of the men of business and crafts and industries, so that when the summer season is over they return to the pursuit of their work joyful and vigorous, having made prudence their guide and resolution their pasture.