Soul of Magnificence
O soul of Magnificence,
Put down your shield.
It is your own spear
Which pierces your armor!
How far from the ways
Of mankind must we travel
Before we see that
The shackles are of our own making?
And the cruellest dungeon,
Into which no light enters
Is but our own construction
Nothing external could hold us,
Except as we imagine it can;
But why imagine that,
When there are symphonies to be played
On the harps of the wind?