The Forgotten Threshold | Page 3

sadly purifying the earth. I now understand the
Washer of the Ford. Majesty lies in darkness, and grief is only the
privilege of seeing Majesty. Today on the porch with closed eyes
buried in my hands the winds swept over me in a torrent of living light.
A symphony is a wonderful symbol. In the first place, it is music. In the
second place, it is a name of praise with four syllables. Then it

completes a cycle, and returns on a higher plane to the motif with
which it began. It is the history of a soul, and in its last movement
typifies the resurrection of the body, by means of this very return,--a
return to the order and disposal in which it was created and which it
now reassumes to praise its Creator for all eternity by the harmony of
the original Thought. I looked at twilight into the tiny white heart of a
flower that grew among the grasses, and out of the heart pulsed the
Sacred Body in wounds all glorified, with Hands outstretched
conducting the music of the worlds. I know now that the flower was a
chalice. The sadness of it cannot die as the Man can, and I know that it
is with me ready to be shared. As I write this, there is a mist within my
room. I always sleep now like one ready to soar. In the crowded room
tonight I felt myself making the movements of swimming, as if the air
were water and I an expert swimmer.
July 14.
_Views of the unveiled heavens alone forth bring Prophets who cannot
sing_.
A day of tempestuous wind and rain with all the keen dynamic life of
time poised 'mid eternities. The happiest of my days battling with the
elements in wonderful silences. At Mass with wonder the shining of the
Host. My eyes were veiled from the chalice, but I felt two angels
--guarding the acolytes. Again at the Credo the thunder of _Et Homo
factus est_. With Shelley in the afternoon and a perilous walk on the
cliffs. ... I am gaining in detachment. The desire and passion for
solitude grows and I meditate a winter on the islands. How unworthy I
am to partake of mysteries! They fill me with fear, for it is hard for the
body to live in eternity. In the evening with Gordon Craig. Is he right
about masks? A mask is a symbol, but a face may be a sacrament. The
Mass, after all, is the supreme dream and drama of the world. Sadness
is majesty, as I found the other night, and majesty is always
impenetrable, for it is a secret full of awe and mysterious silence.
Tonight I see that great drama, whether it be a tragedy or no, must
reveal time poised in infinity. Beauty, I think, contains everything save
the human will, and it is the ideal of the will to be thus contained and of

beauty to be the container. ... In the supreme drama of Gethsemane and
Calvary, Christ used the human body as the supreme visible instrument
of drama.
July 15.
... Tonight the fog broke through the sunset and scattered gold across
the sea. Clouds hung over the cliffs. ... I prayed through the sunset, and
won a victory for the will.
July 16.
Last night in the darkness I learned many things. The human will is the
unit, the core of flame which binds all elements together. It is sad
because it is the force of impact tearing things from their detached and
comfortable places and placing them in new relations. It is the magnet,
the summoning voice, our own conscience, the expression of Majesty.
It disposes reluctant and conflicting notes in harmony. And we have
control of it given into our hands. And then, too, I learnt that words are
worlds. At every breath, nay, by the slightest thought, we create planets.
Pray that they harmonize! They have power. Are they angels? They
convey our messages, but their harmony of inter-woven song and
meaning was lost at Babel to our ears. Yet by them if our will is strong
and we do not fail in deeds we may take our part in the symphony as
truly as life itself. And so we must not use them idly. How can anyone
dare to tell a lie? One begins to see how God is a Name. I felt before
how the secret of language was to be found among the sands. It is
because the sands are the nearest and most visible planets we possess.
Words are planets. But planets are sands on the shore of eternity.
Words are sands. We are little words made flesh, little echoes in the
image of the great Word made