do somewhat of himself; but when the universal Soul is manifest above
will, his eyes turn away from that old battery; he is absorbed in what
he sees,--forgets himself, his deeds, wants, gains. He is rapt; stands
like Socrates a day and a night in contemplation; sits like Newton for
twelve hours half dressed on the edge of his bed, arrested in rising. He
is that madman to the world who neglects his meat, postpones his private
enterprise, regards honor and comfort as so much interruption to this
commerce with reality. We are all tired of property which is exclusion,
of goods which must be taken from another to serve me. Good should grow
with sharing,--more for me when all is given. In the spirit there are no
fences, boxes, or bags.

Presenting truth, I declare it as freely yours as mine. Every act of
genius proclaims that the highest gift is no monopoly or singularity, no
privilege of one, but the birthright of the race. Shakspeare knows well
that we shall easily see what he sees; he considers it no secret. We are
always feeling beforehand for every right word now about to be spoken in
the world; many men give tokens of the general habit of thought before
he is born who clearly knows what all were dreaming. Wisdom has only
gone before us on our own path, and we overtake our guide in every
perception. Yet we are lifted quite off our feet by any new possibility
revealed in life: every circle drawn round our own astonishes, though it
be drawn from our centre. The poet in his certainty appears a child of
the heavens, and we strike another foolish line through the crowd, as
though every man were not his own poet as truly as he is his own priest
and governor, as though each were not entitled to see whatever is to be
seen. The masters of thought may teach us better. They address their
loftiest power in us, and never sing to oxen or dogs. The painting,
poem, statue, oratorio, calls to me by name; the morning is an eye that
solicits mine. Shall I take only the husks, and leave to another,