And on autumn evenings you look up at the stars, and the light
and the death and the dizzy abysses of space above you send a solemn
thrill through your soul.
And this has become a part of yourself. The joy of life for you is to
grasp all you can compass of the universe, and let it permeate your
thought and sense on every side.
But what then? Is this enough? Is it enough to rest thus in yourself?
Have you as yet raised one stepping-stone upon which other men can climb
and say: Now we can see farther than before?
What is your inner being worth, unless it be mirrored in action?
If the world one day came to be peopled with none but supermen--what
profit in that, as long as they must die?
What is your faith?
Ah, this sense of exile, of religious homelessness! How many times have
you and Merle lain clasping each other's hands, your thoughts wandering
together hand in hand, seeking over earth or among the stars for some
being to whom you might send up a prayer; no slavish begging cry for
grace and favour, but a jubilant thanksgiving for the gift of life.
But where was He?
He is not. And yet--He is.
But the ascetic on the cross is a God for the sick and aged. What of us
others? When shall the modern man, strong, scientifically schooled, find
a temple for the sacred music, the anthem of eternity in his soul?
The sun rose up from behind a distant hill-crest, scattering gold
over the million spires of the pine-forest. Peer bent forward, with
red-gleaming dewdrops on his hand and his white sleeve, and patted the
neck of his restless beast.
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