"For me, I estimate their works and them

So rightly, that at times I almost dream

I too have spent a life the sages' way.

And tread once more familiar paths.

Perchance I perished in an arrogant self-reliance

An age ago; and in that act, a prayer

For one more chance went up so earnest, so

Instinct with better light led in by Death,

That life was blotted out--not so completely

But scattered wrecks enough of it remain,

Dim memories, as now, when once more seems

The goal in sight again. All which, indeed,

Is foolish, and only means--the flesh I wear,

The earth I tread, are not more clear to me

Than my belief, explained to you or no."

I don't think I need to say anything about this.

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