down almost to my hand, and the sunlight thundered in my ears. Last
night the sea was sadly purifying the earth. I now understand the
Washer of the Ford. Majesty lies in darkness, and grief is only the
privilege of seeing Majesty. Today on the porch with closed eyes
buried in my hands the winds swept over me in a torrent of living
light. A symphony is a wonderful symbol. In the first place, it is
music. In the second place, it is a name of praise with four
syllables. Then it completes a cycle, and returns on a higher plane to
the motif with which it began. It is the history of a soul, and in its
last movement typifies the resurrection of the body, by means of this
very return,--a return to the order and disposal in which it was
created and which it now reassumes to praise its Creator for all
eternity by the harmony of the original Thought. I looked at twilight
into the tiny white heart of a flower that grew among the grasses, and
out of the heart pulsed the Sacred Body in wounds all glorified, with
Hands outstretched conducting the music of the worlds. I know now that
the flower was a chalice. The sadness of it cannot die as the Man can,
and I know that it is with me ready to be shared. As I write this,
there is a mist within my room. I always sleep now like one ready to
soar. In the crowded room tonight I felt myself making the movements
of swimming, as if the air were water and I an expert swimmer.


July 14.

_Views of the unveiled heavens alone forth bring Prophets who
cannot sing_.

A day of tempestuous wind and rain with all the keen dynamic life of
time poised 'mid eternities. The happiest of my days battling with the