And, as the varying winds move where they will,
In whispers soft, through trackless fields of air,
So comes the Spirit’s breath, serene and still,
Its tender messages of love to bear,
From men of every race and speech and zone,
Making the whole world one,
Till every sword shall to a sickle bend,
And the long, weary strifes of earth shall end.
—James Freeman Clarke.
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