The Eternal Stars Shine Out

The Situation That Has Not Its Duty, Its Ideal, Was Never Yet Occupied By Man. Yes, Here, In This Poor, Miserable, Hampered, Despicable Actual, Wherein Thou Even Now Standest, Here Or Nowhere Is Thy Ideal; Work It Out Therefrom, And, Working, Believe, Live, Be Free. Fool! The Ideal Is In Thyself.

I Think Scandinavian Paganism, To Us Here, Is More Interesting Than Any Other. It Is, For One Thing, The Latest; It Continued In These Regions Of Europe Till The Eleventh Century; 800 Years Ago The Norwegians Were Still Worshipers Of Odin. It Is Interesting Also As The Creed Of Our Fathers; The Men Whose Blood Still Runs In Our Veins, Whom Doubtless We Still Resemble In So Many Ways.

Beautiful It Is, And A Gleam From The Same Eternal Pole-star Visible Amid The Destinies Of Men, That All Talent, All Intellect, Is In The First Plane Moral. What A World Were This Otherwise!

Literature Is The Thought Of Thinking Souls.

So Much Of Truth, Only Under An Ancient Obsolete Vesture, But The Spirit Of It Still True, Do I Find In The Paganism Of Old Nations. Nature Is Still Divine, The Revelation Of The Workings Of God; The Hero Is Still Worshipable: This, Under Poor Cramped Incipient Forms, Is What All Pagan Religions Have Struggled, As They Could, To Set Forth.