I Am A Liberal, Yet I Am

Whoever Sets Himself To See Things As They Are Will Find Himself One Of A Very Small Circle But It Is Only By This Small Circle Resolutely Doing Its Own Work That Adequate Ideas Will Ever Get Current At All.

Sanity -- That Is The Great Virtue Of The Ancient Literature; The Want Of That Is The Great Defect Of The Modern, In Spite Of Its Variety And Power.

The Sea Of Faith Was Once, Too, At The Full, And Round Earth's Shore Lay Like The Folds Of A Bright Girdle Furled. But Now I Only Hear Its Melancholy, Long, Withdrawing Roar, Retreating, To The Breath Of The Night-wind, Down The Vast Edges Drear And Naked Shingles Of The World.

Only--but This Is Rare-- When A Beloved Hand Is Laid In Ours, When, Jaded With The Rush And Glare Of The Interminable Hours, Our Eyes Can In Another's Eyes Read Clear, When Our World-deafen'd Ear Is By The Tones Of A Loved Voice Caress'd-- A Bolt Is Shot Back Somewhere In Our Breast, And A Lost Pulse Of Feeling Stirs Again. The Eye Sinks Inward, And The Heart Lies Plain, And What We Mean, We Say, And What We Would, We Know. A Man Becomes Aware Of His Life's Flow, And Hears Its Winding Murmur; And He Sees The Meadows Where It Glides, The Sun, The Breeze.

Art Still Has Truth. Take Refuge There.