At that time, at eighteen, drawing near the confines of illusive, void dreams, Elf-land lies behind us, the shores of Reality rise in front. These shores are yet distant; they look so blue, soft, gentle, we long to reach them. In sunshine we see a greenness beneath the azure, as of spring meadows; we catch glimpses of silver lines, and imagine the roll of living waters. Could we but reach this land, we think to hunger and thirst no more; whereas many a wilderness, and often the flood of death, or some stream of sorrow as cold and almost as black as death, is to be crossed ere true bliss can be tasted. Every joy that life gives must be earned ere it is secured; and how hardly earned, those only know who have wrestled for great prizes. The heart's blood must gem with red beads the brow of the combatant, before the wreath of victory rustles over it.

At eighteen, Elf-land lies behind us, the shores of Reality rise ahead. These shores are still distant; they look so blue, soft, and gentle, we long to reach them. There, we think, we would hunger and thirst no more; whereas many a wilderness or stream of sorrow is to be crossed before true bliss can be tasted. Every joy that life gives must be earned; and earned with hardship.
