Root:Trumbull Stickney’s ‘**The Soul of Time’ **Time's a circumference Whereof the segment of our station seems A long straight line from nothing into naught. Therefore we say "progress," "infinity" Dull words whose object Hangs in the air of error and delights Our boyish minds ahunt for butterflies. For aspiration studies not the sky But looks for stars; the victories of faith Are soldiered none the less with certainties, And all the multitudinous armies decked With banners blown ahead ...