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.

Who shall show me why I love, with this deep and thirsty intensity,
the array of gold and silver light, these mist-hung fields with
their soft tints, the glow that flies and fades, the cold veils of
frosty vapour? Thousands of men and women have seen the sunset
pass, loving it even as I love it. They have gone into the silence
as I too shall go, and no hint comes back as to whether they
understand and are satisfied.

And now I turn in at the well-known gate, and see the dark gables
of my house, with the high elms of the grove outlined against the
pale sky. The cheerful windows sparkle with warmth and light,
welcoming me, fresh from the chilly air, out of the homeless
fields. With such array of cheerful usages I beguile my wondering
heart, and chase away the wild insistent thoughts, the deep
yearnings that thrill me. Thus am I bidden to desire and to be