When our senses are like glass,
We can see our soul grow full, Stream and clamber over the banks, And grant radiance to all. Wool Is no whiter than our deeds, nor Snow brighter than our traits, and Our mind shines. Our soul, strong and Glad, free and sure, opens her hand, We are her hand. The details of Knowing, of feeling of doing, Believing, intending and wanting, Are mere small streams; ensuing From them, floods of light Tumble and cascade, Appearing from their source of life From behind the palisade.
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Yaacov David Shulman
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