The
weariness and sense of futility which often falls upon the mystic
after much thought is due to this, that he has not recognized that
he must be worker as well as seer, that here he has duties demanding
a more sustained endurance, just as the inner life is so much vaster
and more intense than the life he has left behind.
Now the duties which can be taken up by the soul are exactly those
which it feels most inadequate to perform when acting as an embodied
being. What shall be done to quiet the heart-cry of the world: how
answer the dumb appeal for help we so often divine below eyes that
laugh? It is the saddest of all sorrows to think that pity with no
hands to heal, that love without a voice to speak should helplessly
heap their pain upon pain while earth shall endure. But there is a
truth about sorrow which I think may make it seem not so hopeless.
There are fewer barriers than we think: there is, in truth, an
inner alliance between the soul who would fain give and the soul
who is in need. Nature has well provided that not one golden ray
of all our thoughts is sped ineffective through the dark; not one
drop of the magical elixirs love distils is wasted.
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