They thread gigantic, the star-flung spaces; they creep,
atomic, beneath the microscope's peering eye. They walk
beside us, unseen and unheard, calling out to us, asking
why we are deaf to their crying, blind to their wonder.

Sometimes the veils drop from a man's eyes, and he sees
--and speaks of his vision. Then those who have not seen
pass him by with the lifted brows of disbelief, or they
mock him, or if his vision has been great enough they
fall upon and destroy him.

For the greater the mystery, the more bitterly is its
verity assailed; upon what seem the lesser a man may give
testimony and at least gain for himself a hearing.

There is reason for this. Life is a ferment, and upon and
about it, shifting and changing, adding to or taking away,
beat over legions of forces, seen and unseen, known and
unknown. And man, an atom in the ferment, clings desperately
to what to him seems stable; nor greets with joy
him who hazards that what he grips may be but a broken
staff, and, so saying, fails to hold forth a sturdier one.

Earth is a ship, plowing her way through uncharted
oceans of space wherein are strange currents, hidden
shoals and reefs, and where blow the unknown winds of
Cosmos.

If to the voyagers, painfully plotting their course, comes
one who cries that their charts must be remade, nor can