He Who Has Not Looked On Sorrow

Happiness Is A Myth We Seek, If Manifested Surely Irks; Like River Speeding To The Plain, On Its Arrival Slows And Murks. For Man Is Happy Only In His Aspiration To The Heights; When He Attains His Goal, He Cools And Longs For Other Distant Flights.

Your Reason And Your Passion Are Your Rudder And Sails Of Your Seafaring Soul, If Either Your Sails Or Your Rudder Be Broken, You Can But Toss And Drift, Or Else Be Held At A Standstill In Mid-seas. For Reason, Ruling Alone, Is A Force Confining; And Passion, Unattended, Is A Flame That Burns To Its Own Destruction.

All These Things Shall Love Do Unto You That You May Know The Secrets Of Your Heart, And In That Knowledge Become A Fragment Of Life's Heart.

Thus With My Lips Have I Denounced You, While My Heart, Bleeding Within Me, Called You Tender Names. It Was Love Lashed By Its Own Self That Spoke. It Was Pride Half Slain That Fluttered In The Dust. It Was My Hunger For Your Love That Raged From The Housetop, While My Own Love, Kneeling In Silence, Prayed Your Forgiveness.

The Best Of Man Is He Who Blushes When You Praise Him And Remains Silent When You Defame Him.