Rose at 4:30 and saw the sun rise a pure and shimmering symbol of the
Host above the silver outline of Wonder Island. The day was dumb. A
little boy has come whose face is his sacrament. What a song he must
sing! I look forward to the morrow as a day of special grace and
wonder. ...


July 25.

It is evident to me that music is wrong before a play or during
intermissions. But it is necessary until our dramatists provide some
other prelude. That prelude must be a beautiful setting of silence for
a few moments showing the protagonist under the light of eternity. In
the beginning all words contained a spiritual "import,"--were angels.
At Babel many fell. Now all our spiritual words are material words
grown out of their meanings. When expression becomes passion, it is
the passion of creation, clothing itself in images as God does through
eternity in the Passion of Creation. This is near the heart of life's
most awful secret, but words conceal it except from experience. For
Passion proceeds from Creation as Preservation proceeds from both,
though they are all from Eternity in the Unity of the Godhead. All my
planets at the contemplation of This are dancing before the throne.
The thunderous rhythm of their music is shaking me physically like the
engines of a steamer in shallow water. Every atom struggles against
the law of cohesion. God loves the beautiful boy. His name is Henry
R----. The Greeks, Emerson says, called the world _Cosmos_, Beauty.
Reading this on the veranda this afternoon, I closed my eyes and sank
contentedly into life. When I returned the faces were foreign, and
even my mother never knew. On the dunes this morning I heard the