" The winds of the
world blow radiantly upon us as in the early time. We feel wrapt
about with love, with an infinite tenderness that caresses us. Alone
in our rooms as we ponder, what sudden abysses of light open within
us! The Gods are so much nearer than we dreamed. We rise up
intoxicated with the thought, and reel out seeking an equal
companionship under the great night and the stars.
Let us get near to realities. We read too much. We think of that
which is "the goal, the Comforter, the Lord, the Witness, the resting-
place, the asylum, and the Friend." Is it by any of these dear and
familiar names? The soul of the modern mystic is becoming a mere
hoarding-place for uncomely theories. He creates an uncouth symbolism,
and blinds his soul within with names drawn from the Kabala or ancient
Sanskrit, and makes alien to himself the intimate powers of his spirit,
things which in truth are more his than the beatings of his heart.
Could we not speak of them in our own tongue, and the language of
today will be as sacred as any of the past. From the Golden One,
the child of the divine, comes a voice to its shadow.
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