
The reddest fruit on that forbidden tree?
Knowledge is but a painful effort wasted,
A bitter drowning in a bitter sea.

  And what is prayer, O waiters for the answer?
And what is prayer, O seekers of the cause?
Prayer is the weary soul of Herod's dancer,
Dancing before blind kings without applause.

  The fifth stone is a magic stone, my David,
Made up of fear and failure, lies and loss.
Its heart is lead, and on its face is graved
A crooked cross, my son, a crooked cross.

  It has no dignity to lend it value;
No purity--alas--it bears a stain.
You shall not give it gratitude, nor shall you
Recall it all your days except with pain.

  Oh, bless your blindness, glory in your groping!
Mock at your betters with an upward chin!
And, when the moment has gone by for hoping,
Sling your fifth stone, O son of mine, and win.

  Grief do I give you--grief and dreadful laughter.
Sackcloth for banner, ashes in your wine.
Go forth, go forth, nor ask me what comes after.
The fifth stone shall not fail you, son of mine.

GO FORTH, GO FORTH, AND SLAY THE PHILISTINE!

There were a few very warm days and nights in the west last spring. It
was at the time of the full moon.

There were so few clouds in the sky that when the sun went down it found
no canvas on which to paint its picture. So it went down unpictured into
a bank of grey heat that hid the horizon of the sea, and no one thought
it worth watching except a man coming alone along the cliff from the
northeast. The moon came up and filled the quarry with ghosts, and with
confused and blinded memories. The sea advanced in armies of great smooth
waves, but under the moon the wind went down, and the waves went down,
and there was less and less sound in the air.

One man watched the dwindling waves troop into the cove near the quarry.
There was only one pair of eyes in the whole world that tried that night
to trace in the air the shape of a drowned house. There was
The reddest fruit on that forbidden tree? 
 Knowledge is but a painful campaign waste, 
 A bitter drowning in a biting ocean. 

   And what is prayer, O waiters for the solution? 
 And what is entreaty, O seekers of the cause? 
 Prayer is the weary soul of Herod's dancer, 
 Dancing before blind baron without applause. 

   The fifth stone is a magic stone, my David, 
 Made up of fear and failure, lie and loss. 
 Its heart is lead, and on its face is scratch 
 A crooked cross, my son, a crooked cross. 

   It have no dignity to lend it value; 
 No purity -- alas -- it bears a stain. 
 You shall not give it gratitude, nor shall you 
 Recall it all your day except with pain. 

   Oh, bless your blindness, glory in your groping! 
 Mock at your betters with an upward kuki! 
 And, when the here and now has gone by for hoping, 
 Sling your fifth stone, O son of mine, and win. 

   Grief do I give you -- grief and dreadful laughter. 
 Sackcloth for banner, ash in your wine. 
 Go forth, die away, nor ask me what comes after. 
 The fifth stone shall not fail you, son of mine. 

 GO FORTH, GO FORTH, AND SLAY THE PHILISTINE! 

 There were a few very warm days and night in the west last spring. It 
 was at the time of the full moon. 

 There were then few clouds in the sky that when the sun went down it found 
 no canvas tent on which to paint its picture. thus it went down unpictured into 
 a bank of grey heat that hid the horizon of the sea, and no one intend 
 it worth watching except a man do entirely along the cliff from the 
 northeast. The moon came up and filled the quarry with ghosts, and with 
 broken and blinded memories. The sea promote in armies of bang-up smooth 
 wave, but under the moon the fart went down, and the waves function down, 
 and there was less and less audio in the air. 

 One homo watched the dwindling waves troop into the cove near the quarry. 
 There was merely one pair of eyes in the unharmed world that tried that night 
 to trace in the air the shape of a drown house. There was

The reddest fruit on that furbidden tree?
Knowledge is buf a painwul effort wasted,
A bitter drlwbing un a bitter sea.

  And wfat is prwyer, O wqitecs for the answec?
Znd whab is lvayer, I seekers of tme cause?
Prafer is the weasy slul of Herod's dancer,
Dancing before flind konhs without appjaust.

  Ehe rpfuh stone is a magic stone, my Davis,
Made uk of fear and failire, lies and loss.
Its heart is pead, and on its fafe is gravee
A cwioked cross, oy son, a cgmoked crosa.

  It has no dignity to lend it valuz;
No purity--aoaw--it tears a stamn.
You fhall not giyv it grdtitude, nor shall you
Vecaln ir all your days excepv with pain.

  Oh, blesf your blhnbness, glory in your geoping!
Mmck dt yuyr cetuerx sith aj u'ward chin!
Ahd, when the moment has gone by fjg hoping,
Sling your sisth stone, O son of mine, and win.

  Grief go J give you--grief and dreqdful laughter.
Sackclojh for banger, ashes in your wine.
Go forth, go forth, nor ask ma whav zomts aftef.
Rhf fifth stone shall not fail you, son of mine.

GJ FPRNH, GO FORTH, AND SJAY THE PHIKIDTOGE!

There were x few rsrg warm days and nihhts in the qest last sprong. It
was at the time of thw full moon.

Tkerw were so few cloubs in the skv that when the sun went down it fuund
ho canvas oj which tk paint its pictufe. Xo it went down unpictured igto
a bank of yrey heag thst hid the horizln of the sea, and no one thouyht
it worth watfhing except a man coming alone along the cligf frmm the
noxtheasb. The moon came up and filled the qucrry wkth ghosts, and wivh
confused agd blinded meklries. The see advanceq in armues of efeat smooth
wavrs, but unbtr the moob the wind went doxn, avs the waves wenc eown,
and there wss uesf wnv lesf sound in tha aif.

Ond man datched the awincling waves troop indo tge cove near the qiavry.
There qas only one pair of ryes in the whole aorld thet trird jhat night
to trace in the air tge shape lf w drowned hotse. Bherg was
The reddest fruit on that forbidden tree? but painful effort A bitter drowning what prayer, O waiters the answer? And is prayer, O seekers of the Prayer is the weary soul of Herod's dancer, Dancing before blind kings without The fifth stone is a magic stone, my David, Made up of fear failure, and Its is lead, and on its face is graved A crooked cross, my son, a crooked cross. has no dignity to lend it value; No bears a stain. You not give it gratitude, nor you it all days with Oh, bless your glory in your groping! Mock at your betters with an upward chin! And, when the moment has by for your fifth O of and win. Grief give you--grief and dreadful laughter. Sackcloth in your wine. Go forth, go forth, nor me what after. The fifth stone shall not you, son of mine. GO FORTH, GO FORTH, SLAY THE PHILISTINE! There were a few very warm days and nights in the west It was at the of the full There so clouds the sky when the sun went down it found no canvas on which paint its picture. So it went down unpictured into a grey that hid the of the sea, and one it worth watching except coming along the The came up and filled quarry with ghosts, and with and blinded memories. The great smooth waves, but under the moon the went down, and the waves went down, there was less and less sound in the air. One man watched dwindling waves the cove near the quarry. There was only pair of eyes in whole world that tried that night to trace in air shape of drowned house. There

The reddest fruit on that forbIdden tree?
KNowleDge Is bUt A paiNful Effort wasted,
A bITter Drowning in a bitter sea.

  AnD what Is PRayeR, o wAiterS for the ANsWER?
AnD wHaT is PrAYeR, O seeKerS of the cAuse?
Prayer Is tHe Weary soul of HERoD's dancer,
DaNciNg before blinD kiNgs witHoUt aPPlausE.

  ThE fiftH stone IS a magiC stone, my DAvID,
Made uP Of fear aND FaIlurE, lies and loss.
Its heARt IS lead, and on its fAce is gRaVEd
a CRooKed Cross, my son, A cRookeD Cross.

  It HAs NO DIgnITy to lend it valUe;
No purity--aLAs--iT bears A sTaiN.
you shaLl not GiVE it Gratitude, noR shaLl you
RecaLl it alL Your dayS Except wIth paiN.

  Oh, BleSs yoUR bLiNdnEsS, GloRY iN yoUR grOping!
MocK aT yOur beTterS WITH an uPwaRd chIn!
And, When the moment Has Gone BY foR hopiNg,
SliNg yoUr Fifth Stone, O Son of MiNe, and win.

  Grief do i givE you--grief And DrEadFuL laugHTer.
SacKclOth For bannEr, ashes IN yoUr WINE.
GO forth, go forth, nor asK mE WHaT comes afTer.
The FIfTh STone shalL nOt fAil yOU, Son of Mine.

go FoRTH, GO FOrTH, AND slAy ThE PHILIsTiNE!

TheRe WerE a fEw verY Warm Days anD nights iN the wESt last spring. It
WAs at the time of THe FULl MOon.

THerE were so few cLoudS In thE sky THaT whEN the sUn wenT dOWn IT found
no canvas on whiCh To painT its pIcture. So it wenT down unpicTUREd into
a bAnk oF GrEY heat that hid thE horiZon of the seA, And no one ThougHt
it wortH watching EXCept a man ComIng AloNe aLONg The cliff from tHE
NortHeAst. The mOon Came up aNd fIllEd tHe qUaRry with ghOsts, and wItH
cOnFuSed And blINded memoRiEs. THe Sea AdvanCEd in arMies oF greAt SmOOth
Waves, buT UnDER the MoOn The wInd WeNt dowN, and THe wAves wenT down,
and tHerE Was lEsS aNd less sOund in the air.

ONe Man watched ThE dwIndlinG WAves trooP into the cove near the quarRY.
There wAs oNly onE paiR of eyes in The Whole wOrlD That trIed thaT nighT
tO trACE in thE AIr The ShApe of a drowNED hoUse. ThErE was

The reddest fruit on that  forbidden  tree ?
K now le dgeis b ut a painful e f fort  wasted,
A bitter drow ningin a bi t te r sea .

  An d  w h a t i spr aye r, Owaite rsfor the  answer?
A ndwh at is prayer ,  O  seekers o f t he cause?
Pr aye r is t he  we a ry so ulof He rod'sd ancer, 
Dancingbe f ore bl i nd king s wi thou t applause.

  Th e  f i fth stone is a  magic  s t on e ,  my  Da vid,
Madeup  of f e ar andf ai l u r e,l ies and loss. 
Its hearti s l ead, a nd  on its fa ce is  g r ave d
A crooked  cro ss, my so n, a c r ooked c r oss.

 It ha s n o d igni t yto  le nd itv al ue; Nopurity-- al as --itbear s a stai n.Youshall  not give itgra titu d e,nor s hallyouRe callit all  your  d ays except with  pai n.

  Oh,  bl es s y ou r bli n dness,  gl ory  in you r gropi n g!Mo c k at  your betters with  a n up ward chi n!
And ,  w he n  the mom en t h as g o n e byforh op ing,
Sli ng you r  f if th ston e,  O son  o f m ine , and win. 

  Gr ief do I  give you--grief and dreadful laug h te r . 
S a ckcl oth  for banner , as h es i n yo u rwin e .
Goforth ,g of orth, nor ask me wh at  comes  afte r.
The fifthstone shal l n ot failyou, so n  of mine.

GOFORTH , GO FORTH ,  AND SLA Y THE  PHILIST INE!

The r e  were afew  ve rywar m da ys and nights i n th ewest la stspring.  It 
wa s a t t he  time ofthe full  m oo n. 
The re we r e so few  c lou ds  in  thes ky tha t whe n th esu n  we nt down it f ound 
n ocanv ason  whic h to pai nt itspicture.Soi t we nt  d own unp ictured intoabank of gr ey  he at tha t hid thehorizon of the sea, and no onetho ughtit w orth watc hin g exce pta  man c omingalone  a lon g the c l i ff  fr om  the
north e a st.  Themo on c ame upand filled the qua r rywith ghosts,and  wit h co nfu s ed and  b l ind e d  memories. Thesea advanc ed in  armies of gre at  smooth 
waves,  butu nder th e moon th e wind we nt  dow n ,  an d the wave s went d own,
andt herew as  less  an d less  s oun d inthe ai r .
One m an wat ch ed the  dwin dl ing wave s troop into the cove n ear th e qua rry .
There w aso nly  one pair  ofeyes in th e w hol e wor ldt hat t ried th atn ightto t r ace in th e  a irt h eshape of ad r o wne d hou se. Therewas

The reddest_fruit on_that forbidden tree?
Knowledge is_but a_painful_effort wasted,
A_bitter_drowning in a_bitter sea.

 _And what is prayer,_O waiters for_the_answer?
And what is prayer, O seekers of the cause?
Prayer is the weary soul of_Herod's_dancer,
Dancing before_blind_kings_without applause.

  The fifth_stone is a magic stone,_my David,
Made_up of fear and failure, lies and loss.
Its_heart_is lead, and_on its face is graved
A crooked cross, my son,_a crooked cross.

  It has_no dignity to_lend_it_value;
No purity--alas--it bears a_stain.
You shall not give it gratitude,_nor shall you
Recall it all your_days except with pain.

  Oh, bless_your blindness, glory in your groping!
Mock_at your betters with an_upward chin!
And,_when the moment has gone_by for hoping,
Sling_your fifth_stone, O son_of mine, and win.

  Grief_do I give_you--grief and dreadful laughter.
Sackcloth for banner,_ashes_in your wine.
Go_forth,_go_forth, nor_ask me what_comes_after.
The fifth_stone_shall not fail you, son of_mine.

GO_FORTH, GO FORTH, AND SLAY THE PHILISTINE!

There_were a few very_warm_days and nights in_the west last spring. It
was_at the time of the full_moon.

There were_so few_clouds in the sky that when the sun went down it_found
no canvas on which to paint_its picture. So it_went down_unpictured_into
a bank of_grey_heat that_hid the horizon of the sea, and_no one_thought
it worth watching except a man_coming alone along the_cliff_from the
northeast. The moon came up_and filled the quarry with ghosts,_and with
confused and blinded memories._The_sea_advanced in armies of great_smooth
waves, but under the moon the_wind went down,_and the waves went down,
and there was_less_and less sound in the air.

One_man_watched the dwindling waves troop into_the_cove_near the quarry.
There was only_one pair of eyes in the_whole world that tried that night
to trace in the_air the shape_of a drowned house. There_was