He spoke about wanting to die for her, which was a flight beyond Dickson himself.

"I doubt it will be what they call a 'grand passion,'" he reflected with reverence.

But it was hopeless; he saw quite clearly that it was hopeless.
Why, he could not have explained, for Dickson's instincts were subtler than his intelligence.

He recognized that the two belonged to different circles of being, which nowhere intersected.

That mysterious lady, whose eyes had looked through life to the other side, was no mate for the Poet.