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392 I will leave all, and come and make the hymns of
 * you;

None have understood you, but I understand you, None have done justice to you—you have not done
 * justice to yourself,

None but have found you imperfect—I only find no
 * imperfection in you,

None but would subordinate you—I only am he who
 * will never consent to subordinate you,

I only am he who places over you no master, owner,
 * better, God, beyond what waits intrinsically in
 * yourself.

Painters have painted their swarming groups, and the
 * centre figure of all,

From the head of the centre figure spreading a nimbus
 * of gold-colored light,

But I paint myriads of heads, but paint no head without
 * its nimbus of gold-colored light,

From my hand, from the brain of every man and
 * woman it streams, effulgently flowing forever.

O I could sing such grandeurs and glories about you! You have not known what you are—you have slumbered
 * upon yourself all your life,

Your eyelids have been the same as closed most of
 * the time,

What you have done returns already in mockeries, Your thrift, knowledge, prayers, if they do not return
 * in mockeries, what is their return?

The mockeries are not you, Underneath them, and within them, I see you lurk, I pursue you where none else has pursued you,