Assured henceforth, where'er I go
Asearch tho' loftiest solitude,
Or in the thundering Vatican,
There's naught sublime but Man!
Great sons were they, when race leapt into moods,
Cultures and teachers even as in our day,—
Who come asearch for truth, discover it,
And so hang new suns 'cross the human way.
Mac + Safari
iPhone + iPad
Google Chrome
Mozilla Firefox
Opera
Microsoft Edge