So it has ever been. Our Land of Heart’s Desire is woven of our own thoughts and longings and emotions, and no two weave alike. And it is well if returning thence we bring with us gifts worthy of acceptance. For many to whom the weaver gives the Flax of Dream weave hurriedly and the web is spoilt. It needs time to gather the joy and sorrow, love and suffering, the wisdom that go to make the perfect design, and through all the weft of it must run the thread of self-sacrifice like a scarlet flame, touching it to inconceivable beauty.

— J. Quiddington West,

The Incalculable Hour