Come To Me In My

They... Who Await. No Gifts From Chance, Have Conquered Fate.

Below The Surface Stream, Shallow And Light, Of What We Say And Feel Below The Stream, As Light, Of What We Think We Feel, There Flows With Noiseless Current, Strong, Obscure And Deep, The Central Stream Of What We Feel Indeed.

Goethe In Weimar Sleeps, And Greece, Long Since, Saw Byron 's Struggle Cease.

Once Read Thy Own Breast Right, And Thou Hast Done With Fears.

The Kings Of Modern Thought Are Dumb.