The
subtlest essence of the thing they worship and desire, they have in their
own nature,--they are. No schools, no standards, no laws can help or
hinder them.
To them the world is as if it were not. Work and pain and loss are as if
they were not. These are they to whom it is easy to die any death, if good
can come that way to one they love. These are they who do die daily
unnoted on our right hand and on our left,--fathers and mothers for
children, husbands and wives for each other. These are they, also, who
live,--which is often far harder than it is to die,--long lives, into
whose being never enters one thought of self from the rising to the going
down of the sun. Year builds on year with unvarying steadfastness the
divine temple of their beauty and their sacrifice. They create, like God.
The universe which science sees, studies, and explains, is small, is
petty, beside the one which grows under their spiritual touch; for love
begets love. The waves of eternity itself ripple out in immortal circles
under the ceaseless dropping of their crystal deeds.
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