Yes, we hope to seed a new, rich earth. We hope to breed a race of men whose power Dwells in hearts as open as all Space Itself, who ask for nothing but the light That rinses the heart of hate so that the stars Above will be below when man has Love.
Now we have lit a candle to the power Of atoms; now we know we're heirs of light Itself.
By this he meant that all events, therefore, all men, are interconnected in an unbreakable web. What man does, no matter how seemingly insignificant, vibrates through the strands and affects every man.
Burton sighed, laughed loudly, and said, "Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose." Another fairy tale to give men hope . The old religions have been discredited although some refuse to face even that fact so new ones must be invented.
Caught Beauty , held to light, now apes A good, now evil, thing the shifting sign And spectrum of archaic, psychic shapes.
Can imagination act Perpendicular to fact? Can it be a kite that flies Till the Earth , umbrella-wise, Folds and drops away from sight?
Sawbeaked epitome of bodiless Idea, tossed by gusts of ether, dive Through abstract mists and raid the sea of fact Eat rich strange fish, grow long bright feathers, press Form's flesh around thought's rib, and so derive From the act of beauty, beauty of the act.
Call me Meier," Goring said, but he did not pause to explain the joke .
By now you must have accepted the fact that your religion , in fact, none of the Earthly religions, truly knew what the afterlife would be. All made guesses, and then established these as articles of faith . Though, in a sense, some were near the mark, if you accept their revelations as symbolic .
Dreams haunted The Riverworld.
Prometheus, I have no Titan's might, Yet I, too, must each dusk renew my heart, For daytime's vulture talons tear apart The tender alcoves built by love at night.
One thing is sure, O comrades, that the love That fights to keep us rooted in the earth, But also urges us to dare the stars, This irresistible, this ancient power Wedged in the soul, unshakable, is the light That burns our roots and leaves us free for Space.
Confucius once said that a bear could not fart at the North Pole without causing a big wind in Chicago.
Miles above the Earth we know , Fancy's rocket roars. Below, Here and Now are needles which Sew a pattern black as pitch, Waiting for the rocket's light.
Reader, pray that soon this Iron Age Will crumble, and Beauty escape the rusting cage.
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