there; when the clouds of winter cover it; that the dial is
terrible。 The invisible shadow goes on and steals from us。 But
now; while I can see the shadow of the tree and watch it slowly
gliding along the surface of the grass; it is mine。 These are the
only hours that are not wasted … these hours that absorb the soul
and fill it with beauty。 This is real life; and all else is
illusion; or mere endurance。 Does this reverie of flowers and
waterfall and song form an ideal; a human ideal; in the mind? It
does; much the same ideal that Phidias sculptured of man and woman
filled with a godlike sense of the violet fields of Greece;
beautiful beyond thought; calm as my turtle…dove before the lurid
lightning of the unknown。 To be beautiful and to be calm; without
mental fear; is the ideal of nature。 If I cannot achieve it; at
least I can think it。
End
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