The One Thing Finished In

The Gift Without The Giver Is Rare.

Praise Follows Truth Afar Off, And Only Overtakes Her At The Grave; Plausibility Clings To Her Skirts And Holds Her Back Till Then

The Thing We Long For, That We Are For One Transcendent Moment.

For Only By Unlearning Wisdom Comes.

O Visionary World, Condition Strange, Where Naught Abiding Is But Only Change.