They miss the whisper that runsany day in your mind,"Who are you really, wanderer?"and the answer you have to giveno matter how dark and coldthe world around you is:"Maybe I'm a king."

It is as if the ordinary language we use every day has a hidden set of signals; a kind of secret code.

Shelter in winter that day --a storm coming, but in the leeof an island in a cover with friends --oh, little bright cup of sun.

You happy beings, watch every face for thoseyou pass caught in the midst of lifeby some horror, their souls gone dim, cursedor unlucky, exiled under a stone.

I keep following this sort of hidden river of my life, you know, whatever the topic or impulse which comes, I follow it along trustingly. And I don't have any sense of its coming to a kind of crescendo, or of its petering out either. It is just going steadily along.

Wisdom is having things right in your life
and knowing why.