The youth gets together his materials to build a bridge to the moon, or, perchance, a palace or temple on the earth, and, at length, the middle-aged man concludes to build a woodshed with them. -- Henry David Thoreau
It has been a beautiful pre-dawn, with the peek-a-boo moon alternately flooding the pasture and creeks with blue light, then muted by opalescent cloud, or hidden entirely in gray fog. Beautiful, but I feel no joy in it. Why this crepuscular sadness in the dense quiet of the morning?
I think, maybe it is because, even as I gather more and more materials about me and conjure a bridge or temple as if I had my life ahead of me, these hands know even a woodshed may soon exceed their grasp.