Never a daisy that grows, but a mystery guideth the growing; Never a river that flows, but a majesty scepters the flowing.
Great are the symbols of Being, But that which is symboled is greater;
Vast the create and beheld, But vaster the Inward Creator.
Back of the sound broods the silence, back of the gift stands the giving;
Back of the hand that receives thrill the sensitive nerves of receiving.
Fair are the flowers and the children, but their subtle suggestion is fairer;
Rarer is the roseburst of dawn, but the secret that clasps it rarer;
Sweet the exultance of song, but the strain that precedes it is sweeter
And never was poem yet writ, but the meaning outmastered the meter.
Into the statue that breathes, the soul of the sculptor is bidden.
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