an end, To rust unburnish’d, not to shine in use! - Alfred Tennyson

The wind sounds like a silver wire,
And from beyond the noon a fire
Is pour'd upon the hills, and nigher
The skies stoop down in their desire;
And, isled in sudden seas of light,
My heart, pierced thro' with fierce delight,
Bursts into blossom in his sight.

Am I mad, that I should cherish that which bears but bitter fruit? I will pluck it from my bosom, tho' my heart be at the root

Follow you the star that lights a desert pathway, yours or mine. Forward, till you see the Highest Human Nature is divine.