How Many Minds--almost All The

The World Hath Failed To Impart The Joy Our Youth Forebodes; Failed To Fill Up The Void Which In Our Breasts We Bear.

Without Poetry Our Science Will Appear Incomplete, And Most Of What Now Passes With Us For Religion And Philosophy Will Be Replaced By Poetry.

Thought And Science Follow Their Own Law Of Development; They Are Slowly Elaborated In The Growth And Forward Pressure Of Humanity, In What Shakespeare Calls ...the Prophetic Soul, Of The Wide World Dreaming On Things To Come.

Ah, Love, Let Us Be True To One Another! For The World, Which Seems To Lie Before Us Like A Land Of Dreams, So Various, So Beautiful, So New, Hath Really Neither Joy, Nor Love, Nor Light, Nor Certitude, Nor Peace, Nor Help For Pain; And We Are Here As On A Darkling Plain Swept With Confused Alarms Of Struggle And Flight, Where Ignorant Armies Clash By Night.

Oxus, Forgetting The Bright Speed He Had In His High Mountain Cradle In Pamere, A Foiled Circuitous Wanderertill At Last The Longed-for Dash Of Waves Is Heard, And Wide His Luminous Home Of Waters Opens, Bright And Tranquil, From Whose Floor The New-bathed Stars Emerge, And Shine Upon The Aral Sea.