It Is The Heart That

That Is The Returning To God Which In Reality Is Never Concluded On Earth But Yet Leaves Behind In The Soul A Divine Home Sickness, Which Never Again Ceases.

Every Life Has Its Years In Which One Progresses As On A Tedious And Dusty Street Of Poplars, Without Caring To Know Where He Is.

The Evil-doer Mourns In The Next; He Mourns In Both. He Mourns And Suffers When He Sees The Evil Of His Own Work.

Thus One Memory Follows Another Until The Waves Dash Together Over Our Heads, And A Deep Sigh Swells The Breast, Which Warns Us That We Have Forgotten To Breathe In The Midst Of These Pure Thoughts.

And If I Were To Ask Myself From What Literature We Who Have Been Nurtured Almost Exclusively On The Thoughts Of Greeks And Romans, And Of The Semitic Race, The Jewish, May Draw The Corrective Which Is Most Wanted In Order To Make Our Inner Life More Perfect, More Comprehensive, More Universal, In Fact More Truly Human A Life... Again I Should Point To India.