LITMIR.BIZ

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      The hand of destiny to mould his life.

      Tradition’s mountainweight, and prejudice

      With dull oppressive hand will always quench

      The strength of e’en the very best of words.

      But that which here reveals itself in speech

      Gives men, who think as I do, food for thought.

      Clearly we saw the kind of consequence

      That comes when sects, in superheated speech,

      Blind souls of men with dogma’s seething stream.

      But nought here of such spirit do we find;

      Here only reason greets the soul, and yet

      These words create the actual powers of life,

      Speaking unto the spirit’s inmost depths.

      Nay even to the kingdom of the Will

      This strange and mystic Something penetrates;

      This Something, which to such as I, who still

      Wander in ancient ways, seems but pale thought.

      Impossible, it seems, to disavow

      Its consequences; none the less, myself

      I cannot quite surrender to it yet.

      But it all speaks with such peculiar charm

      And not as though it really meant for me

      The contradiction of experience.

      It almost seems as if this Something found

      The kind of man I am, insufferable.

      Strader:

      I would associate myself in fullest sense

      With every one of thy last spoken words:

      And still more sharply would I emphasize

      That all results in our soul-life, which seem

      To spring forth from the influence of ideas,

      Cannot in any wise decide for us

      What actual worth of knowledge they conceal.

      Whether there lives within our mode of thought,

      Error or truth—’tis certain this alone

      The verdict of true science can decide.

      And no one would with honesty deny

      That words, which are, in seeming only, clear,

      Yet claim to solve life’s deepest mysteries,

      Are quite unfit for such a scrutiny.

      They fascinate the spirit of mankind,

      And only tempt the heart’s credulity;

      Seeming to open door into that realm

      Before which, humble and perplexed, now stands

      The strict and cautious search of modern minds.

      And he who truly follows such research

      Is bound in honour to confess that none

      Can know whence streams the well-spring of his thought,

      Nor fathom where the depths of Being lie.

      And though confession such as this is hard

      For souls who all too willingly would gauge

      What lies beyond the ken of mortal mind,

      Yet every glance of every thinker’s soul

      Whether directed to the outer side,

      Or turned towards the inner depths of life,

      Scans but that boundary and naught beside.

      If we deny our rational intellect

      Or set aside experience, we sink

      In depths unfathomable, bottomless.

      And who can fail to see how utterly

      What passeth here for revelation new,

      Fails to fit in with modern modes of thought.

      Indeed it needs but little thought to see,

      How totally devoid this method is

      Of that, which gives all thought its sure support

      And guarantees a sense of certainty.

      Such revelations may warm listening hearts,

      But thinkers see in them mere mystic dreams.

      Philia:

      Aye, thus would always speak the science, won

      By stern sobriety and intellect.

      But that suffices not unto the soul,

      That needs a steadfast faith in its own self.

      She ever will give heed to words that speak

      To her of spirit. All she dimly sensed

      In former days, she striveth now to grasp.

      To speak of the Unknown may well entice

      The thinker, but no more the hearts of men.

      Strader:

      I too can realize how much there lies

      In that objection; how it seems to strike

      The idle dreamer, who would only spin

      The threads of thought, and seek the consequence

      Of this or that premise, which he himself

      Hath formed beforehand. Me—it touches not—

      No outer motive guided me to thought.

      In childhood I grew up ’mid pious folk

      And, following their custom, steeped my soul

      In sense-intoxicating images

      Of future sojourn in celestial realms,

      Wherewith they seek to comfort and beguile

      Man’s ignorance and man’s simplicity.

      Within my boyish soul I sensed the throb

      Of utmost ecstasy, when reverently

      I raised my thoughts to highest spirit-worlds;

      And prayer was then my heart’s necessity.

      Thereafter in a cloister was I trained;

      Monks were my teachers, and in mine own heart

      The deepest longing was to be a monk—

      An echo of my parents’ ardent wish.

      For consecration did I stand prepared

      When chance did drive me from the cloistered cell;

      And to this chance I owe deep gratitude.

      For, many days before chance saved my soul

      It had been robbed of inward peace and quiet;

      For I had read and learned of many things,

      That have no place within the cloister-gate.

      Knowledge of nature’s working came to me

      From books that were forbidden to mine eyes.

      And thus I learned new scientific thought.

      Hard

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