What though my winged hours of bliss have been, Like angel visits, few and far between.

The combat deepens. On, ye brave, Who rush to glory or the grave! Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave, And charge with all thy chivalry!

Tis distance lends enchantment to the view, and robes the mountain in its azure hue.

Ye mariners of England! That guard our native seas; Whose flag has braved a thousand years, The battle and the breeze!

The prophet's mantle, ere his flight began, Dropt on the world--a sacred gift to man.

Coming events cast their shadows before.

The being level speaks the language of art, music, color shape and pattern directly -- a language that requires no words -- is not limited by words -- nor does it have the specificity of words and thus cannot be broken onto parts that can be manipulated or analyzed by the intellect. It must be swallowed, whole not parsed, sorted and justified.