into the heart; one desires to share the thoughts and hopes, the
dreams and visions, in the strength of which the human spirit has
risen superior to suffering and death.

And thus, as I say, the reading that is done in such a mood has
little of precise acquisition or definite attainment about it; it
is a desire rather to feed and console the spirit--to enter the
region in which it seems better to wonder than to know, to aspire
rather than to define, to hope rather than to be satisfied. A
spirit which walks expectantly along this path grows to learn that
the secret of such happiness as we can attain lies in simplicity
and courage, in sincerity and loving-kindness; it grows more and
more averse to material ambitions and mean aims; it more and more
desires silence and recollection and contemplation. In this mood,
the words of the wise fall like the tolling of sweet, grave bells
upon the soul, the dreams of poets come like music heard at evening
from the depth of some enchanted forest, wafted over a wide water;
we know not what instrument it is whence the music wells, by what
fingers swept, by what lips blown; but we know that there is some
presence there that is sorrowful or glad, who has power to
translate his dream into the concord of sweet sounds. Such a mood
need not withdraw us from life, from toil, from kindly
relationships, from deep affections; but it will rather send us
back to life with a renewed and joyful zest, with a desire to
discern the true quality of beautiful things, of fair thoughts, of
courageous hopes, of wise designs. It will make us tolerant and
forgiving, patient with stubbornness and prejudice, simple in
conduct, sincere in word, gentle in deed; with pity for weakness,
with affection for the lonely and the desolate, with admiration for
all that is noble and serene and strong.