If Ever I Said In Grief Or

Without Music I Should Wish To Die.

Upon This Gifted Age, In Its Dark Hour Falls From The Sky A Meteoric Shower Of Facts; They Lie Unquestioned, Uncombined. Wisdom Enough To Leech Us Of Our Ill Is Daily Spun, But There Exists No Loom To Weave It Into Fabric.

Let Us Not Forget Such Words, And All They Mean, As Hatred, Bitterness, And Rancor Greed, Intolerance, Bigotry; Let Us Renew Our Faith And Pledge To Man, His Right To Be Himself And Free.

But Far, Oh, Far As Passionate Eye Can Reach, And Long, Ah, Long As Rapturous Eye Can Cling, The World Is Mine: Blue Hill, Still Silver Lake, Broad Field, Bright Flower, And The Long White Road A Gateless Garden, And An Open Path: My Feet To Follow, And My Heart To Hold.

What Should I Be But Just What I Am?