The Morning Hour Has Gold At The

I Was Shortly Again At The Castle, And The Princess Gave Me Her Hand To Kiss And Then Brought Her Children, The Young Princes And Princesses, And We Played Together, As If We Had Known Each Other For Years.

And Then When All Around Grows Dark, When We Feel Utterly Alone, When All Men Right And Left Pass Us By And Know Us Not, A Forgotten Feeling Rises In The Breast.

I Have Declared Again And Again That If I Say Aryans, I Mean Neither Blood Nor Bones, Nor Hair Nor Skull; I Mean Simply Those Who Speak An Aryan Language. In That Sense, And In That Sense Only, Do I Say That Even The Blackest Hindus Represent An Earlier Stage Of Aryan Speech And Thought Than The Fairest Scandinavians. To Me An Ethnologist Who Speaks Of Aryan Race, Aryan Blood, Aryan Eyes And Hair, Is As Great A Sinner As A Linguist Who Speaks Of A Dolichocephalic Dictionary Or A Brachycephalic Grammar.

As A Tree, Even Though It Has Been Cut Down, Is Firm So Long As Its Root Is Safe, And Grows Again, Thus, Unless The Feeders Of Thirst Are Destroyed, The Pain (of Life) Will Return Again And Again.

Yes, Now I Understood For The First Time That My Soul Was Not So Poor And Empty As It Had Seemed To Me, And That It Had Been Only The Sun That Was Lacking To Open All Its Germs, And Buds To The Light.