And it speedeth a terrified Deucalion, flinging back the pebble in his flight,
The pebble that must add one more to those pursuing ghosts.
O man, there is a storm behind should drive thy bark to haven;
The foe, the foe is on thy track, patient, certain, and avenging;
Day by day, solemnly, and silently, followeth the fearful past,—
His step is lame, but sure; for he catcheth the present in eternity:
And how to escape that foe, the present-past in future?
How to avert that fate, living consequence of causes unexistent?—
Boldly we must overleap his birth, and date above his memories,
Grafted on the living Tree, that WAS before a yesterday: