However much one may enjoy the onrush and vividness of life—­I for one find that, though vitality runs now in more definite and habitual channels, though one has done with making vague impulsive experiments, though one wastes less time in undertaking doubtful enterprises, yet there is a great gain in the concentration of energy, and in the certain knowledge of what one’s definite work really is.

Far from finding the spring and motion of life diminished, I feel that the current of it runs with a sharper and clearer intensity, because I have learned my limitations, and expend no energy in useless enterprises.  I have learned what the achievements are which come joyfully bearing their sheaves with them, and what are the trivial and fruitless aims.  When I was younger I desired to be known and recognised and deferred to.  I wanted to push my way discreetly into many companies, to produce an impression, to create a sense of admiration.  Now as the sunset draws nearer, and the enriched light, withdrawn from the farther horizon, begins to pulsate more intensely in the quarter whence it must soon altogether fade, I begin to see that vague and widely ranging effects have a thinness and shallowness about them.  It is a poor thing just to see oneself transiently reflected in a hundred little mirrors.  There is no touch of reality about that.  Little greetings, casual flashes of courteous talk, petty compliments—­these are things that fade as soon as they are born.  The only thing worth doing is a little bit of faithful and solid work, something given away which costs one real pain, a few ideas and thoughts worked patiently out, a few hearts really enlivened and inspirited.  And then, too, comes the consciousness that much of one’s cherished labour is of no use at all except to oneself; that work is not a magnificent gift presented to others, but a wholesome privilege conceded to oneself, that the love which brought with it but a momentary flash of self-regarding pleasure is not love at all, and that only love which means suffering—­not delicate regrets and luxurious reveries, but hard and hopeless pain—­is worth the name of love at all.  Those are some of the lights of sunset, the enfolding gleams that are on their way to death, and which yet testify that the light which wanes and lapses here, drawn reluctantly away from dark valley and sombre woodland, is yet striding ahead over dewy uplands and breaking seas, past the upheaving shoulder of the world.

But best of all the gifts of sunset to the spirit is the knowledge that behind all the whirling web of daylight, beyond all the noise and laughter and appetite and drudgery of life, lies the spirit of beauty that cannot be always revealed or traced in the louder and more urgent pageantry of the day.  The sunset has the power of weaving a subtle and remote mystery over a scene that by day has nothing to show but a homely and obvious animation.  I was travelling the other day and passed, just as the day began to