Noble Souls, Through Dust And Heat, Rise

Ah, How Skillful Grows The Hand That Obeyeth Love's Command! It Is The Heart, And Not The Brain, That To The Highest Doth Attain, And He Who Followeth Love's Behest Far Excelleth All The Rest!

Now To Rivulets From The Mountains Point The Rods Of Fortune-tellers; Youth Perpetual Dwells In Fountains, Not In Flasks, And Casks, And Cellars.

Not In The Clamor Of The Crowded Street, Not In The Shouts And Plaudits Of The Throng, But In Ourselves, Are Triumph And Defeat.

Balder The Beautiful Is Dead, Is Dead!

You Would Attain To The Divine Perfection.