POET: The grovelling idolaters of the Bellied God cry : "Let nothing be changed. "The things which are, are sacred."

TRUTH: Nothing is sacred. Man least of all.

Change is the breathing of the universe. Had nothing been changed, Man were now a worm within the slime ; A brute within a bloody cave. Sacredness is Nature's scorn ; Idolatry her contempt ; A bandage to the visioned seer; A pitfall to the eager feet of the runner ; Black pitch clogging the wings of eagles. Nature welcomes the sacrilege of her children. She is a common book, open to the blunderer, Setting him straight ; Prodigal and patient with the persistent ; Cold to those who will not invade her. To become sacred is to end And Nature is without end.

POET: I will be my own moralist and Nature shall lead me. I will follow her like a little child Who stumbles, holding the hand of its mother.

TRUTH: While ye have rulers there can be neither peace nor freedom.

POET: I will open the gates unto Love. His wings shall cover the world. He shall wander through the fields,

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