And we--we slink away and go alone to cry.

Will it be always so?
Whether we hate and doubt, or whether we believe and love, to our dearest, are we to seem always wicked?
We do not yet know that in the soul's search for truth the bitterness lies here, the striving cannot always hide itself among the thoughts; sooner or later it will clothe itself in outward action; then it steps in and divides between the soul and what it loves.

All things on earth have their price; and for truth we pay the dearest.

We barter it for love and sympathy.

The road to honour is paved with thorns; but on the path to truth, at every step you set your foot down on your own heart.
VI.
Then at last a new time--the time of waking; short, sharp, and not pleasant, as wakings often are.
Sleep and dreams exist on this condition--that no one wake the dreamer.
And now life takes us up between her finger and thumb, shakes us furiously, till our poor nodding head is well-nigh rolled from our shoulders, and she sets us down a little hard on the bare earth, bruised and sore, but preternaturally wide awake.
We have said in our days of dreaming, "Injustice and wrong are a seeming; pain is a shadow.