More potent than the ripest form of words, However art might weave therein her spell, Seemed nature's gift, man's talents--and more strong The hand of destiny to mould his life. Tradition's mountainweight, and prejudice With dull oppressive hand will always quench The strength of e'en the very best of words. But that which here reveals itself in speech Gives men, who think as I do, food for thought. Clearly we saw the kind of consequence That comes when sects, in superheated speech, Blind souls of men with dogma's seething stream. But nought here of such spirit do we find; Here only reason greets the soul, and yet These words create the actual powers of life, Speaking unto the spirit's inmost depths. Nay even to the kingdom of the Will This strange and mystic Something penetrates; This Something, which to such as I, who still Wander in ancient ways, seems but pale thought. Impossible, it seems, to disavow Its consequences; none the less, myself I cannot quite surrender to it yet. But it all speaks with such peculiar charm And not as though it really meant for me The contradiction of experience. It almost seems as if this Something found The kind of man I am, insufferable. STRADER: I would associate myself in fullest sense With every one of thy last spoken words: And still more sharply would I emphasize That all results in our soul-life, which seem To spring forth from the influence of ideas, Cannot in any wise decide for us What actual worth of knowledge they conceal. Whether there lives within our mode of thought, Error or truth--'tis certain this alone The verdict of true science can decide. And no one would with honesty deny That words, which are, in seeming only, clear, Yet claim to solve life's deepest mysteries, Are quite unfit for such a scrutiny. They fascinate the spirit of mankind, And only tempt the heart's credulity; Seeming to open door into that realm Before which, humble and perplexed, now stands The strict and cautious search of modern minds. And he who truly follows such research Is bound in honour to confess that none Can know whence streams the well-spring of his thought, Nor fathom where the depths of Being lie. And though confession such as this is hard For souls who all too willingly would gauge What lies beyond the ken of mortal mind, Yet every glance of every thinker's soul Whether directed to the outer side, Or turned towards the inner depths of life, Scans but that boundary and naught beside. If we deny our rational intellect Or set aside experience, we sink In depths unfathomable, bottomless. And who can fail to see how utterly What passeth here for revelation new, Fails to fit in with modern modes of thought. Indeed it needs but little thought to see,