The present is enough for common souls,

Who, never looking forward, are indeed

Mere clay wherein the footprints of their age

Are petrified forever: better those

Who lead the blind old giant by the hand

From out the pathless desert where he gropes,

And set him onward in his darksome way.

I do not fear to follow out the truth,

Albeit along the precipice’s edge.

Let us speak plain: there is more force in names