All day, and for many another day, we
were conscious of a larger world of harmony and beauty folding in our
little world of tree and soil; we lived in it as freely and made it
ours as fully as the bit of earth beneath our feet. Through all our
talk this thread of melody was run, and our very thoughts were set to
this unfailing music. In those days the Poet wrote no verses; what
need of verse when poetry itself, that deep and breathing beauty of the
soul of things, filled every hour and overflowed all the channels of
thought and sense!
But if we were dumb in the hearing of a music beyond our mastery, we
were not blind to the parable conveyed in every sound and sight; in
those delicious days and nights a great truth cleared itself forever in
our minds. We know henceforth how all dream-worlds, all beautiful
hopes and visions and ideals, are fashioned. They are not of human
making; they but make visible things which already exist unseen; they
but make audible sounds which are already vocal unheard. He who
dreams, sleeps, and another fills the chamber of his brain with moving
figures; he who aspires, hopes and believes, unlocks the door, and
another world, already furnished with beauty, lies before him. Our
ideals are God's realities. We build the new worlds of our knowledge
out of the dust of worlds already swinging in space; the stately homes
of our imagination, rise on foundations of the common earth.
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