Into the statue that breathes, the soul of the sculptor is bidden.
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.
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