And meantime the real world, of events
that actually occur, will not fail, in spite of its flaws and rebuffs,
to bring him ever-fresh delights. Let no one minimize these delights.
There is more beauty, more interest here in this mundane existence
of ours, more inspiration, more inexhaustible possibility of enjoyment
than the keenest of us has dreamed of. We need some sort of shaking
up to rouse us to the beauty of common things- the freshness of the air
we breathe, the warmth of sunshine, the green of trees and fields and
the blue of the sky, the joy in exercise of brain and muscle, in reading
and talking and sharing in the life of the world; and in such daily
things as eating at the family table when we are hungry, or a good
night's sleep when we are tired. We need some teacher like Whitman
to open our eyes to the beauty not only of flowers but of leaves of
grass, to the picturesqueness and significance of so dull a thing as
a ferryboat; or like Wordsworth, with his picturing of homely country
scenes and events, with his emotion at the sight of the sleeping city-
"a sight so touching in its majesty." This sense of the meaning of
common things floods most of us at one time or another, and we see
what in our blindness we have been overlooking. Go without your
comfortable bed for a while, your well-cooked food, your home, friends,
neighbors, and you will discover how rich you have been. Your mother's
face hinted by some stranger in a foreign land will some day overcome
you with the realization of the comfort of her love; and unless you
are a crabbed egotist the life of your fellows can furnish you with
endless pleasures.
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