Aletha

WHAT all men think ‘Tis mine to say; To me the dark Is as the day, To-morrow is as yesterday.

Where men are blind I only see; Dumb mouth, deaf ears Are naught to me; It is enough alone to be.

What all men dream I realize; And mortals wait Till their dead eyes Open upon the great surprise.

Of my vast height The poets rhyme; With feeble feet They vainly climb, With tired steps, my steep of time.

Where men believe ‘Tis mine to know; Mine are the peaks That burn and glow, With their volcanoes in the snow,

Mine is the soul Of fire; lit By the unknown; But out of it Upon the heart the known is writ.