Wrong ever builds on quicksands, but the
Right
To the Arm centre lays its moveless base.
The wicked tremble if the air but stirs
The innocent ringlets of a child's free hair,
And crouches when the thought of some great
Spirit,
With world-wide murmur, like a rising wind,
Over men's hearts, as over standing corn
Rushes, and bends them to its own strong
Mind.
Know, of a truth, that only the time-shadows have perished, or are perishable; that the real Being, of whatever was, and whatever is and will be, is even now and forever. Admit space and time to their due rank, as only forms of thought, and consider then how their thin disguises hide from us the brightest God-effulgences. Time and space are not God. With God it is a universal here, an everlasting now.
