It is the song of the Persian poet:
The sullen mountain, and the bee that hums,
A flying joy, about its flowery base,
Each from the same immediate fountain comes,
And both compose one evanescent race.
There is no difference in the texture fine
That's woven through organic rock and grass,
And that which thrills man's heart in every line,
As o'er its web God's weaving fingers pass.
The timid flower that decks the fragrant field,
The daring star that tints the solemn dome,
From one propulsive force to being reeled;
Both keep one law and have a single home.
Chapter VII
The Mystery of Night
Every day two worlds lie at my door and invite me into mysteries as far
apart as darkness and light. These two realms have nothing in common
save a certain identity of form; colour, relation, distance, are lost
or utterly changed. In the vast fields of heaven a still more complete
and sublime transformation is wrought. It is a new hemisphere which
hangs above me, with countless fires lighting the awful highways of the
universe, and guiding the daring and reverent thought as it falters in
the highest empyrean. The mind that has come into fellowship with
Nature is subtly moved and penetrated by the decline of light and the
oncoming of darkness.
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