The More A Thing Is Perfect, The

When I Had Journeyed Half Of Our Life's Way, I Found Myself Within A Shadowed Forest, For I Had Lost The Path That Does Not Stray.

If Anyone Should Want To Know My Name, I Am Called Leah. And I Spend All My Time Weaving Garlands Of Flowers With My Fair Hands, T O Please Me When I Stand Before The Mirror; My Sister Rachel Sits All The Day Long Before Her Own, And Never Moves Away. She Loves To Contemplate Her Lovely Eyes; I Love To Use My Hands To Adorn Myself: Her Joy Is In Reflection, Mine In Act.

Consider Your Origins: You Were Not Made To Live As Brutes, But To Follow Virtue And Knowledge.

O You, Who In Some Pretty Boat, Eager To Listen, Have Been Following Behind My Ship, That Singing Sails Along Turn Back To Look Again Upon Your Own Shores; Tempt Not The Deep, Lest Unawares, In Losing Me, You Yourselves Might Be Lost. The Sea I Sail Has Never Yet Been Passed; Minerva Breathes, And Pilots Me Apollo, And Muses Nine Point Out To Me The Bears. You Other Few Who Have Neck Uplifted Betimes To The Bread Of Angels Upon Which One Lives And Does Not Grow Sated, Well May You Launch Your Vessel Upon The Deep Sea.

But If, As Morning Rises, Dreams Are True.