O Human Race, Born To Fly Upward,

The Heavens Call To You, And Circle About You, Displaying To You Their Eternal Splendors, And Your Eye Gazes Only To Earth.

Do Ye Not Comprehend That We Are Worms Born To Bring Forth The Angelic Butterfly That Flieth Unto Judgment Without Screen?

Be As A Tower Firmly Set; Shakes Not Its Top For Any Blast That Blows.

Here Let Dead Poetry Rise Once More To Life.

What Shall One Do With The Verse, If He Knows Not That?