Many are the fools who say that Jesus stood in His own path and opposed Himself; that He knew not His own mind, and in the absence of that knowledge confounded Himself.
Many indeed are the owls who know no song unlike their own hooting.
You and I know the jugglers of words who would honour only a greater juggler, men who carry their heads in baskets to the marketplace and sell them to the first bidder.
We know the pygmies who abuse the sky-man. And we know what the weed would say of the oak tree and the cedar.
I pity them that they cannot rise to the heights.
I pity the shrivelling thorn envying the elm that dares the seasons.
But pity, though enfolded by the regret of all the angels, can bring them no light.
I know the scarecrow whose rotting garments flutter in the corn, yet he himself is dead to the corn and to the singing wind.
I know the wingless spider that weaves a net for all who fly.
I know the crafty, the blowers of horns and the beaters of drums, who in the abundance of their own noise cannot hear the skylark nor the east wind in the forest.