When doctors differ who decides amid the milliard-headed throng? Who save the madman dares to cry: ''Tis I am right, you all are wrong'? 'You all are right, you all are wrong,' we hear the careless Soofi say, 'For each believes his glimm'ering lamp to be the gorgeous light of day.' 'Thy faith why false, my faith why true? 'tis all the work of Thine and Mine, 'The fond and foolish love of self that makes the Mine excel the Thine.' Cease then to mumble rotten bones; and strive to clothe with flesh and blood The skel'eton; and to shape a Form that all shall hail as fair and good.