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THE ORACLE
DOWN in its crystal hollow Gleams the ebon well of ink: In the deepest drop lies lurking The thought all men shall think.
Fair on the waiting tablet Lies the empty paper's space: Out of its snow shall flush a word Like an angel's earnest face.
Who in those depths shall cast his line For the gnome that hugs that thought? Who from the snowy field shall charm That flower of truth untaught?
Not in the lore of the ancients, Not in the yesterday: On the lips of the living moments The gods their message lay.