Below the sun, we trace the flickering wall,
And mistake the dancing shadows for the truth;
The heavy chains of sense have bound us all,
From weary age back to the dreaming youth.
But if one breaks the iron of the cave,
And climbs the rugged path to blinding light,
He finds the Form that time can never slave,
A world of Essence, permanent and bright.
The Just, the Good, the Beautiful, the True—
Not found in clay, nor carved in cooling stone,
But in the mind that looks the chaos through
To see the patterns of a higher throne.
The soul remembers what it knew before,
And longs to step through that eternal door.
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