Think Then Of To-Day, Humbly
Putting Away The Rebellion And Despondency Corroding Your Life, And It
Will Be With You As It Has Been; You Shall Know Again The Peace Which
Passes Understanding, The Old Ineffable Happiness In The Sights And
Sounds Of Earth.
Common things shall seem rare and beautiful to you.
Listen to the chiff-chaff ingeminating the familiar unchanging call and
message of spring.
Do you know that this frail feathered mite with its
short, feeble wings has come back from an immense distance, crossing
two continents, crossing mountains, deserts illimitable, and, worst of
all, the salt, grey desert of the sea. North and north-east winds and
snow and sleet assailed it when, weary with its long journey, it drew
near to its bourne, and beat it back, weak and chilled to its little
anxious heart, so that it could hardly keep itself from falling into
the cold, salt waves. Yet no sooner is it here in the ancient home and
cradle of its race, than, all perils and pains forgot, it begins to
tell aloud the overflowing joy of the resurrection, calling earth to
put on her living garment, to rejoice once more in the old undying
gladness - that small trumpet will teach you something. Let your reason
serve you as well as its lower faculties have served this brave little
traveller from a distant land."
Is this then the best consolation my mysterious mentor can offer? How
vain, how false it is! - how little can reason help us! The small bird
exists only in the present; there is no past, nor future, nor knowledge
of death. Its every action is the result of a stimulus from outside;
its "bravery" is but that of a dead leaf or ball of thistle-down
carried away by the blast. Is there no escape, then, from this
intolerable sadness - from the thought of springs that have been, the
beautiful multitudinous life that has vanished? Our maker and mother
mocks at our efforts - at our philosophic refuges, and sweeps them away
with a wave of emotion. And yet there is deliverance, the old way of
escape which is ours, whether we want it or not. Nature herself in her
own good time heals the wound she inflicts - even this most grievous in
seeming when she takes away from us the faith and hope of reunion with
our lost. They may be in a world of light, waiting our coming - we do
not know; but in that place they are unimaginable, their state
inconceivable. They were like us, beings of flesh and blood, or we
should not have loved them. If we cannot grasp their hands their
continued existence is nothing to us. Grief at their loss is just as
great for those who have kept their faith as for those who have lost
it; and on account of its very poignancy it cannot endure in either
case. It fades, returning in its old intensity at ever longer intervals
until it ceases.
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