There at Geneva where Mt. Blanc floated above The wine-hued lake like a cloud, when a breeze was blown Out of an empty sky of blue, and the roaring Rhone Hurried under the bridge through chasms of rock; And the music along the cafés was part of the splendor Of dancing water under a torrent of light; And the purer part of the genius of Jean Rousseau Was the silent music of all we saw or heard— There at Geneva, I say, was the rapture less Because I could not link myself with the I of yore, When twenty years before I wandered about Spoon River? Nor remember what I was nor what I felt? We live in the hour all free of the hours gone by. Therefore, O soul, if you lose yourself in death, And wake in some Geneva by some Mt. Blanc, What do you care if you know not yourself as the you Who lived and loved in a little corner of earth Known as Spoon River ages and ages vanished? Marie Bateson You observe the carven hand With the index finger pointing heavenward. That is the direction, no doubt. But how shall one follow it? It is well to abstain from murder and lust, To forgive, do good to others, worship God Without graven images. But these are external means after all By which you chiefly do good to yourself. The inner kernel is freedom, It is light, purity— I can no more, Find the goal or lose it, according to your vision. Tennessee Claflin Shope I was the laughing-stock of the village, Chiefly of the people of good sense, as they call themselves— Also of the learned, like Rev. Peet, who read Greek The same as English. For instead of talking free trade, Or preaching some form of baptism; Instead of believing in the efficacy Of walking cracks, picking up pins the right way, Seeing the new moon over the right shoulder, Or curing rheumatism with blue glass, I asserted the sovereignty of my own soul. Before Mary Baker G. Eddy even got started With what she called science I had mastered the “Bhagavad Gita,” And cured my soul, before Mary Began to cure bodies with souls— Peace to all worlds! Plymouth Rock Joe