Now I am on cloud thirteen. To but make my fate seems an easy thing, yet I know each stretch of easy road is only a bridge to the next bridgeless river. It is in fording these streams of unknown depth — with dew dripping around me from trees above, making little rings in the water — that I find the only joy worth having. The rush of battle is great, but one would never wish to battle straight to eternity. Like the men in the mead-halls of Valhalla, the Valkyries can only lure me to refreshment occasionally; and rest without battle is no rest at all.
I am on cloud thirteen, and no doubt will soon fall; but if I do not fall, I imagine I will jump.