Aletha

WHAT all men think‘Tis mine to say;To me the darkIs as the day,To-morrow is as yesterday.

Where men are blindI only see;Dumb mouth, deaf earsAre naught to me;It is enough alone to be.

What all men dreamI realize;And mortals waitTill their dead eyesOpen upon the great surprise.

Of my vast heightThe poets rhyme;With feeble feetThey vainly climb,With tired steps, my steep of time.

Where men believe‘Tis mine to know;Mine are the peaksThat burn and glow,With their volcanoes in the snow,

Mine is the soulOf fire; litBy the unknown;But out of itUpon the heart the known is writ.