When You Are Sorrowful, Look Again.

And Before My Soul Took Me To Task I Was Hard Of Hearing; I Heard Only Tumult And Uproar. But Now I Am All Ears Listening To The Silence And Its Choirs Singing The Hymns Of Time, Intoning The Praises Of The Firmament, Revealing The Secrets Of The Invisible.

Like The Ocean Is Your God-self; It Remains For Ever Undefiled. And Like The Ether It Lifts But The Winged. Even Like The Sun Is Your God-self; It Knows Not The Ways Of The Mole Nor Seeks It The Holes Of The Serpent. But Your God-self Does Not Dwell Alone In Your Being. Much In You Is Still Man, And Much In You Is Not Yet Man, But A Shapeless Pigmy That Walks Asleep In The Mist Searching For Its Own Awakening.

Everyone Has Experienced That Truth: That Love, Like A Running Brook, Is Disregarded, Taken For Granted; But When The Brook Freezes Over, Then People Begin To Remember How It Was When It Ran, And They Want It To Run Again.

When You Were A Wandering Desire In The Mist, I Too Was There, A Wandering Desire. Then We Sought One Another, And Out Of Our Eagerness Dreams Were Born. And Dreams Were Time Limitless, And Dreams Were Space Without Measure.

We Wanderers, Ever Seeking The Lonelier Way, Begin No Day Where We Have Ended Another Day; And No Sunrise Finds Us Where Sunset Left Us.