Time Is The School In

How The False Truths Of The Years Of Youth Have Passed!have Passed At Full Speed Like Trains Which Never Stoppedthere Where I Stood And Waited, Hardly Aware,how Little I Knew, Or Which Of Them Was The Oneto Mount And Ride To Hope Or Where True Hope Arrives.

Whence, If Ever, Shall Come The Actualityof A Voice Speaking The Mind's Knowing,the Sunlight Bright On The Green Windowshade,and The Self Articulate, Affectionate, And Flowing,ease, Warmth, Light, The Utter Showing,when In The White Bed All Things Are Made.

Love Is The Tact Of Every Good, The Only Warmth, The Only Peace.

Each Minute Bursts In The Burning Room,the Great Globe Reels In The Solar Fire,spinning The Trivial And Unique Away.(how All Things Flash! How All Things Flare!)what Am I Now That I Was Then?may Memory Restore Again And Againthe Smallest Color Of The Smallest Day:time Is The School In Which We Learn,time Is The Fire In Which We Burn.

Major Writing Is To Say That Which Has Been Seen, So That It Need Never Be Said Again; So That Which Has Been Seen Increases, Changes In Reality, In Being.