A fast flowing river tarrys for no man.
Not least, when he moves at snails pace.
Nor even, if he indulges a little leap-frog!
It is almost impossible to translate tempo from one system to another.
It acts like a signature, this metabolism of each seed-race.
If British, one longs for French panache.
If German, for Italian gusto!
Oh, for the feet of Zephyr!
That we could gallop on the breeze,
and out-run all that is ponderous and antique.
That fustiness of thought which clings,
like old cobwebs in every nook,
and cranny of our mind.