Fair are the flowers and the children, but their subtle suggestion
is fairer;
Rare is the rose-burst of dawn, but the secret that clasps it is
rarer;
Sweet the exultance of song, but the strain that precedes it is
sweeter;
And never a poem was writ, but the meaning outmastered the meter.
Never a daisy that grows, but a mystery guideth the growing;
Never a river that flows, but a majesty scepters the flowing;
Never a Shakespeare that soared, but a stronger than he did enfold
him;
Never a prophet foretold, but a mightier seer hath foretold him.
Back of the canvas that throbs, the painter is hinted and hidden;
Into the statue that breathes, the soul of the sculptor is bidden;
Under the joy that is felt, lie the infinite issues of feeling;
Crowning the glory revealed, is the glory that crowns the revealing.
Great are the symbols of being, but that which is symboled is
greater;
Vast the creation beheld, but vaster the inward Creator;
Back of the sound broods the silence; back of the gift stands the
giving;
Back of the hand that receives, thrills the sensitive nerve of
receiving.
Space is nothing to spirit; the deed is outdone by the doing;
The heart of the wooer is warm, but warmer the heart of the wooing;
And up from the pits where these shiver and up from the heights
where those shine,
Twin voices and shadows swim starward, and the essence of life
divine.