The Kings Of Modern Thought Are Dumb.

Wandering Between Two Worlds, One Dead, The Other Powerless To Be Born.

Come, Dear Children, Let Us Away; Down And Away Below!

How Many Minds--almost All The Great Ones--were Formed In Secrecy And Solitude!

To The Bible Men Will Return; And Why? Because They Cannot Do Without It.

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.