We, We Live! Ours Are The Hours,

It Is At The Approach Of Extreme Danger When A Hollow Puppet Can Accomplish Nothing, That Power Falls Into The Mighty Hands Of Nature, Of The Spirit Giant-born, Who Listens Only To Himself, And Knows Nothing Of Compacts.

Weep, For The Light Is Dead.

The Empire Of Saturnus Is Gone By; Lord Of The Secret Birth Of Things Is He; Within The Lap Of Earth, And In The Depths Of The Imagination Dominates; And His Are All Things That Eschew The Light. The Time Is O'er Of Brooding And Contrivance, For Jupiter, The Lustrous, Lordeth Now, And The Dark Work, Complete Of Preparation, He Draws By Force Into The Realm Of Light. Now Must We Hasten On To Action, Ere The Scheme, And Most Auspicious Positure Parts O'er My Head, And Takes Once More Its Flight, For The Heavens Journey Still, And Adjourn Not.

Soon Is The Struggle Past, And To The Earth, To The Eternal Sun, I Render Back These Atoms, Joined In Me For Pain And Pleasure.

Rarely Do We Arrive At The Summit Of Truth Without Running Into Extremes; We Have Frequently To Exhaust The Part Of Error, And Even Of Folly, Before We Work Our Way Up To The Noble Goal Of Tranquil Wisdom.