LITMIR.BIZ

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fear of just this doubt

      That causeth me full many an anxious hour

      From my experience I know nought else

      Of this strange gift of seership, save that when

      Life’s vexing problems sorely trouble me,

      Then, ghostlike, riseth from dark spirit-depths,

      Before my spirit’s eyes, some phantom form

      Like some dream-being, grim and terrible,

      Pressing with fearful weight upon my soul,

      And clutching horribly around my heart.

      It seems to speak right through me words like these:

      ‘If thou dost fail to gain the victory

      O’er me with those blunt weapons of thy thought,

      Thou art a fleeting phantom, nothing more,

      Formed by thine own deluded imagery.’

      Theodosius:

      That is the destiny of all such men,

      As do approach the world by thought alone.

      The spirit’s voice dwells deep in every soul.

      Nor have we strength to pierce the covering

      That spreads itself before our faculties.

      Thought doth bring knowledge of things temporal,

      Of things that vanish in the course of time:

      The everlasting and all spirit-truth

      Are found but in the inner depths of man.

      Strader:

      If, then, the fruitage of a pious faith

      Is able to give rest to weary souls,

      Such souls may wander safely in that path,

      And find sufficiency within themselves.

      And yet the power of knowledge, pure and true,

      Doth never bloom on such a path as this.

      Theodosius:

      Yet there can be no other way to light

      True spirit-knowledge in the hearts of men.

      Pride may seduce and change to fantasies

      The soul’s true depths of feeling, and may see

      A vision only where faith’s beauty lies.

      One thing alone of all we here have heard

      From spirit-teaching of the higher worlds,

      Strikes clear upon our honest human sense:

      That only in the spirit-world itself

      The soul can feel itself in its true home.

      The Other Maria:

      So long as man feels need of speech alone,

      And nought besides, so long such words as these

      May satisfy him: but the fuller life

      With all its strife, its yearnings after joy,

      And all its sorrow, needeth other food

      To nourish and sustain the fainting soul.

      For me, an inner voice did drive me on

      To spend all the remaining days of life

      Which were allotted me, in helping those

      Whom stress of destiny had smitten down

      And plunged in deepest poverty and need.

      And far more oft I found it necessary

      To soothe the anguish of the soul of man

      Than heal his body’s pain and suffering.

      But I have felt indeed in many ways

      My will’s weak impotence to comfort men.

      So that I am compelled to seek fresh strength

      From out the treasured store which floweth forth

      Abundantly from spirit-sources here.

      The quickening warmth of words which greet mine ear,

      Flows forth with magic force into my hands;

      And thence, like healing balsam, forth again,

      When those hands touch some sorrow-laden soul.

      It changeth on my lips to strengthening words

      Which carry comfort unto pain-racked hearts.

      The source of words like these I do not ask;

      I feel their truth—they give me living life.

      And every day more clearly do I see,

      That they derive their strength not from my will

      In all its weakness, but create anew

      Myself each day unto myself again.

      Capesius:

      Yet surely there are men enough on earth

      Who, though they lack such revelation’s aid,

      Perform innumerable deeds of good?

      Maria:

      In sooth there is no lack of men like these

      In many places; but my friend doth mean

      A different thing; and if thou didst but know

      The life she led, thou wouldst speak otherwise.

      Where unused powers in full abundance dwell

      There love will cause the seed to germinate

      In rich abundance in the heart’s good soil.

      But our friend here exhausted life’s best powers

      In never-ending toil beyond her strength;

      And all her will to live lay crushed and dead

      Beneath the cruel weight of destiny,

      Which fell upon her. All her strength she gave

      To careful guidance of her children’s weal:

      And low already had her courage ebbed

      When early death took her loved husband home.

      In such a state as this, days dull and drear

      Seemed all fate had in store whilst life remained.

      But then the powers of destiny prevailed

      To bring her ’neath the spell of spirit-lore;

      And soon with us she felt the vital force

      Of life break forth in her a second time.

      Fresh aims in life she found, and with them came

      Fresh courage once again to fight and strive.

      And thus in her the spirit hath achieved

      In very truth to fashion from decay

      A new and living personality.

      And when the spirit in such fruit as this

      Shows its creative potency, we learn

      Its nature, and the way it speaks to us.

      And, if no pride lies hidden in our speech,

      And highest moral

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