Waiting For The Spark From Heaven To

Oxus, Forgetting The Bright Speed He Had In His High Mountain Cradle In Pamere, A Foiled Circuitous Wanderertill At Last The Longed-for Dash Of Waves Is Heard, And Wide His Luminous Home Of Waters Opens, Bright And Tranquil, From Whose Floor The New-bathed Stars Emerge, And Shine Upon The Aral Sea.

Weep Bitterly Over The Dead, For He Is Worthy, And Then Comfort Thyself; Drive Heaviness Away: Thou Shall Not Do Him Good, But Hurt Thyself.

To Thee Only God Granted A Heart Ever New: To All Always Open; To All Always True.

The Word "god" Is Used In Most Cases As By No Means A Term Of Science Or Exact Knowledge, But A Term Of Poetry And Eloquence, A Term Thrown Out, So To Speak, As A Not Fully Grasped Object Of The Speaker's Consciousness -- A Literary Term, In Short; And Mankind Mean Different Things By It As Their Consciousness Differs.

But Often, In The World’s Most Crowded Streets, But Often, In The Din Of Strife, There Rises An Unspeakable Desire After The Knowledge Of Our Buried Life; A Thirst To Spend Our Fire And Restless Force In Tracking Out Our True, Original Course; A Longing To Inquire Into The Mystery Of This Heart Which Beats So Wild, So Deep In Us—to Know Whence Our Lives Come And Where They Go.