The Splendors That Belong Unto

As Fall The Light Autumnal Leaves, One Still The Other Following, Till The Bough Strews All Its Honors On The Earth Below.

Pure Essence, And Pure Matter, And The Two Joined Into One Were Shot Forth Without Flaw, Like Three Bright Arrows From A Three-string Bow.

As The Geometer Intently Seeks To Square The Circle, But He Cannot Reach, Through Thought On Thought, The Principle He Needs, So I Searched That Strange Sight.

Come, Follow Me, And Leave The World To Its Babblings.

He Listens Well Who Takes Notes.