The only catalogue of this world's goods that really counts is that which we keep in the silence of the mind.
Tell them I came, and no one answered, That I kept my word," he said. Never the least stir made the listeners, Though every word he spake Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house From the one man left awake: Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup, And the sound of iron on stone, And how the silence surged softly backward, When the plunging hoofs were gone.
We wake and whisper awhile, But, the day gone by, Silence and sleep like fields Of amaranth lie.
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