Time Is The School In Which We

Love Is The Tact Of Every Good, The Only Warmth, The Only Peace.

Order And Disorder, Form And Formless Must Have Profound Psychological Roots, Nervous Roots.

What Was The Freedom To Which The Adult Human Being Rose In The Morning, If Each Act Was Held Back Or Inspired By The Overpowering Ghost Of A Little Child?

Where The Light Is, And Each Thing Clear,separate From All Others, Standing In Its Place,i Drink The Time And Touch Whatever's Near,and Hope For Day When The Whole World Has That Face:for What Assures Her Present Every Year?in Dark Accidents The Mind's Sufficient Grace.

Each Minute Bursts In The Burning Room,the Great Globe Reels In The Solar Fire,spinning The Trivial And Unique Away.(how All Things Flash! How All Things Flare!)what Am I Now That I Was Then?may Memory Restore Again And Againthe Smallest Color Of The Smallest Day:time Is The School In Which We Learn,time Is The Fire In Which We Burn.