Thou, who in evening twilight spinnest for me with still hands on enchanted harps heavy meditation on moments of joy that have flown away like a distant whisper of leaves,—on suns that, sinking into the sea, sparkle in the east with bloody dew,—on nights that press to their warm breast tortured hearts,— Radiant mine! How many times has the sun set since those hours when with Thy magic songs Thou pacified the sorrow of my soul,—and yet I see Thine eyes, full of moans and sadness, burning in an unearthly rapture, see the radiant hand stretching towards me and grasping mine with a hot cry. Thou, who transformest stormy nights into sunny days, in the depths of my dreams quenchest reality, removest into an infinite distance all near,— Thou, who enkindlest in my heart will-o’-the-wisps and bearest unto life black flowers— Radiant mine! A thousand times has the world transfigured since Thy look consumed the tarnishing glitter of my soul, and yet I see Thy little child-like face and the golden crown of hair over Thy brow, see how two tears had spread into a pale smile that glowed on Thy mouth, and hear the dark plaint of Thy voice. Thou, who breakest before me the seals of all mysteries and readest the runes of hidden powers, and in all the madnesses of my life flingest Thyself in a rainbow of blessing from one heaven to the other,— Never yet has the storm so strewn the rays of my stars, never yet has the aureole played with such bleeding radiancy around Thy head, as now, when I have lost Thee forever. “Homo Sapiens” Discussed by Readers In another place I called _Homo Sapiens_ “the book of the age.” Surely there has not been a more stirring work of literature since _Werther_. Will the public respond? Is it true that the wall of American indifferentism is impregnable? I am still optimistic about the intellectual aristocracy of this country; that small circle of the young in spirit, brave searchers and earnest livers, for whom art and life are not merely diversions between meals and business transactions, but the italicized essence of existence. To those few Przybyszewski’s book should appeal; those should react.