A wistful
yearning filled my soul to enter into that incommunicable peace.
Yet if one could take the wings of the morning, and follow that
flying zone of light, as swiftly as the air, one could pursue the
same sunset all the world over, and see the fiery face of the sun
ever sinking to his setting, over the broad furrows of moving seas,
over tangled tropic forests, out to the shapeless wintry land of
the south. Day by day has the same pageant enacted itself, for who
can tell what millions of years. And in that vast perspective of
weltering aeons has come the day when God has set me here, a tiny
sentient point, conscious, in a sense, of it all, and conscious too
that, long after I sleep in the dust, the same strange and
beautiful thing will be displayed age after age. And yet it is all
outside of me, all without. I am a part of it, yet with no sense of
my unity with it. That is the marvellous and bewildering thing,
that each tiny being like myself has the same sense of isolation,
of distinctness, of the perfectly rounded life, complete faculties,
independent existence. Another day is done, and leaves me as
bewildered, as ignorant as ever, as aware of my small limitations,
as lonely and uncomforted.
Pages:
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91