She moves and yields, the day of toil now done. There she hurries and explores new fields of life. Ah that no wing can lift me from the ground to closely fallow her and soar. A beautiful dream. Though now the glories fade. Alas the wings which lift the mind so lightly can find no bodily counterpart. (This was a translated poem that Nikola Tesla was reciting as he walked threw a park, and was struck with the perfected diagram of the electric motor.) as I understand.
Posted on: Mon, 17 Jun 2013 22:39:48 +0000