In one place he says:
"Now truly, is dreamland no longer a phantasy of sleep, but a loveliness so
great that, like deep music, there could be no words wherewith to measure
it, but only the breathless unspoken speech of the soul upon whom has
fallen the secret dews."
Of the impossibility of adequately explaining the mystery of Illumination
and the sensations it inspires, he says, speaking through the Self of
_Fiona Macleod_: "I write, not because I know a mystery, and would reveal
it, but because I have known a mystery and am to-day as a child before it,
and can neither reveal nor interpret it."
This is comparable with Whitman's "when I try to describe the best, I can
not. My tongue is ineffectual on its pivots."
Another sentence from _Fiona_:
"There is a great serenity in the thought of death, when it is known to be
the gate of Life."
Like all who have gained the Great Blessing, the revelation to the mind of
that higher Self, that _we are_, William Sharp suffered keenly. The despair
of the world was his, co-equal with the Joy of the Spirit.
Pages:
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321