An Arrow May Fly Through The Air

Tell Me, Ye Wingèd Winds That Round My Pathway Roar, Know Ye Not Some Spot Where Mortals Weep No More?

An Arrow May Fly Through The Air And Leave No Trace; But An Ill Thought Leaves A Trail Like A Serpent.

But The Sunshine Aye Shall Light The Sky, As Round And Round We Run; And The Truth Shall Ever Come Uppermost, And Justice Shall Be Done.

Of All The Offspring Of Time, Error Is The Most Ancient, And Is So Old And Familiar An Acquaintance, That Truth, When Discovered, Comes Upon Most Of Us Like An Intruder, And Meets The Intruder's Welcome.

Truth . . . And If Mine Eyes Can Bear Its Blaze, And Trace Its Symmetries, Measure Its Distance, And Its Advent Wait, I Am No Prophet - I But Calculate.