They discuss men together.
Long is their counseling and eager their tarrying.
My Lord sat upon a hill across from Jerusalem and His bosom was wracked by thoughts of Great projects. He opened His heart to the immensities of distance. He took note of the gnat that winged in the coolness. He beheld His Heavenly Father in the gnat....
The city was a blur.
The swallow that made her nest in the chimney-pots took note of the Watcher, and in that the swallow took note of Him, He blessed it...
Only those who would chide the Infinite, hive themselves in cities. It is nothing to be shut out from the plaything-cots of children. The world in the gloaming is the bid unto an Altar.
My Lord looked across from Jerusalem as a monarch of great destinies gazes from a turret. He could not be thinking in terms of rejections, for rejections concern the paltry prides of Little Men. They know the bitterness of conceits rebuffed because they come knocking and the door holds no lamp. Great souls seek the poise of Nature's uderstandings, they open the treasure-chests of witcheries, they love a High Star in that it is high.
There is a time when men revile themselves with longings. They strain at the harness of earthly circumscriptions. An insect disturbs them and prompts them into blasphemies.
The Great Soul mellows as the organ of sunset rolls its Lost Chord through their Godhead.
Men go to and fro seeking treasure. They only glance upward to save themselves from stumblings. They do not glimpse the infinite from choice alone. They make a pottage out of living...whereupon they grieve.
Great Souls do not grieve.
Grief is a projection of self-pity.
My Lord could not pity Himself. His years were too vast in celestial enoblements.