"Thousands of years, thousands of years,
If all were told."
Is it wholly unwise, wholly the fantasy of a dreamer, to insist, in
this late day, when the dust behind and the mist before hide from us
the Beauty of the World, that we can regain our birthright only by
leaving our cloud-palaces of the brain, and becoming consciously at
one with the cosmic life of which, merely as men, we are no more than
a perpetual phosphorescence?