Our Souls Must Become Expanded

On The Waves Of The Brook She Dances By, The Light, The Lovely Dragon-fly; She Dances Here, She Dances There, The Shimmering, Glimmering Flutterer Fair. And Many A Foolish Young Beetle's Impressed By The Blue Gauze Gown In Which She Is Dressed; They Admire The Enamel That Decks Her Bright, And Her Elegant Waist So Slim And Slight.

Oh Fair, Oh Sweet And Holy As Dew At Morning Tide, I Gaze On Thee, And Yearnings, Sad In My Bosom Hide.

You Talk Of Our Having An Idea; We Do Not Have An Idea. The Idea Has Us, And Martyrs Us, And Scourges Us, And Drives Us Into The Arena To Fight And Die For It, Whether We Want To Or Not.

In Vain Would I Seek To Discover Why Sad And Mournful Am I, My Thoughts Without Ceasing Brood Over A Tale Of The Time Gone By.

Wherever Books Are Burned, Human Beings Are Destined To Be Burned Too.