The Debts We Owe Ourselves Are The

Not Till The Fire Is Dying In The Grate, Look We For Any Kinship With The Stars. Oh, Wisdom Never Comes When It Is Gold, And The Great Price We Paid For It Full Worth: We Have It Only When We Are Half Earth. Little Avails That Coinage To The Old!

The Man Or Country That Fights Priestcraft And Priests Is To My Mind Striking Deeper For Freedom Than Can Be Struck Anywhere.

Lovely Are The Curves Of The White Owl Sweeping Wavy In The Dusk Lit By One Large Star. Lone On The Fir-branch, His Rattle-note Unvaried, Brooding O'er The Gloom, Spins The Brown Eve-jar.

We Are Betrayed By What Is False Within

But O The Truth, The Truth. The Many Eyes That Look On It The Diverse Things They See.