the story of my heart-第4节

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the　organs　of　the　body　may　be　stronger　in　their　action；　perfect；　and
lasting。　That　the　exterior　flesh　may　be　yet　more　beautiful；　that　the　shape
may　be　finer；　and　the　motions　graceful。　These　are　the　soberest　words　I　can
find；　purposely　chosen；　for　I　am　so　rapt　in　the　beauty　of　the　human　form；
and　so　earnestly；　so　inexpressibly；　prayerful　to　see　that　form　perfect；　that
my　full　thought　is　not　to　be　written。　Unable　to　express　it　fully；　I　have
considered　it　best　to　put　it　in　the　simplest　manner　of　words。　　I　believe　in
the　human　form；　let　me　find　something；　some　method；　by　which　that　form　may
achieve　the　utmost　beauty。　Its　beauty　is　like　an　arrow；　which　may　be　shot
any　distance　according　to　the　strength　of　the　bow。　So　the　idea　expressed　in
the　human　shape　is　capable　of　indefinite　expansion　and　elevation　of　beauty。

Of　the　mind；　the　inner　consciousness；　the　soul；　my　prayer
desired　that　I　might　discover　a　mode　of　life　for　it；　so　that　it
might　not　only　conceive　of　such　a　life；　but　actually　enjoy　it　on
the　earth。　I　wished　to　search　out　a　new　and　higher　set　of　ideas
on　which　the　mind　should　work。　The　simile　of　a　new　book　of　the
soul　is　the　nearest　to　convey　the　meaninga　book　drawn　from
the　present　and　future；　not　the　past。　Instead　of　a　set　of　ideas　based　on
tradition；　let　me　give　the　mind　a　new　thought　drawn　straight　from　the
wondrous　present；　direct　this　very　hour。　　Next；　to　furnish　the　soul　with　the
means　of　executing　its　will；　of　carrying　thought　into　action。　In　other
words；　for　the　soul　to
become　a　power。　These　three　formed　the　Lyra　prayer；　of　which　the　two　first
are　immeasurably　the　in　more　important。　I　believe　in　the　human　being；　mind
and　flesh；　form　and　soul。

It　happened　just　afterwards　that　I　went　to　Pevensey；　and
immediately　the　ancient　wall　swept　my　mind　back　seventeen
hundred　years　to　the　eagle；　the　pilum；　and　the　short　sword。　　The
grey　stones；　the　thin　red　bricks　laid　by　those　whose　eyes　had
seen　Caesar's　Rome；　lifted　me　out　of　the　grasp　of　house…life；
of　modern　civilisation；　of　those　minutiae　which　occupy　the
moment。　The　grey　stone　made　me　feel　as　if　I　had　existed　from
then　till　now；　so　strongly　did　I　enter　into　and　see　my　own
life　as　if　reflected。　My　own　existence　was　focused　back　on　me；
I　saw　its　joy；　its　unhappiness；　its　birth；　its　death；　its
possibilities　among　the　infinite；　above　all　its　yearning
Question。　Why？　Seeing　it　thus　clearly；　and　lifted　out　of　the
moment　by　the　force　of　seventeen　centuries；　I　recognised　the
full　mystery　and　the　depths　of　things　in　the　roots　of　the　dry
grass　on　the　wall；　in　the　green　sea　flowing　near。　Is　there
anything　I　can　do？　The　mystery　and　the　possibilities　are　not　in
the　roots　of　the　grass；　nor　is　the　depth　of　things　in　the　sea；　they　are　in
my　existence；　in　my　soul。　The　marvel　of　existence；
almost　the　terror　of　it；　was　flung　on　me　with　crushing　force　by
the　sea；　the　sun　shining；　the　distant　hills。　With　all　their
ponderous　weight　they　made　me　feel　myself：　all　the　time；　all　the
centuries　made　me　feel　myself　this　moment　a　hundred…fold。　I
determined　that　I　would　endeavour　to　write　what　I　had　so　long
thought　of；　and　the　same　evening　put　down　one　sentence。　There
the　sentence　remained　two　years。　　I　tried　to　carry　it　on；　I　hesitated
because　I　could　not　express　it：　nor　can　I　now；　though　in　desperation　I　am
throwing　these　rude　stones　of　thought　together；　rude　as　those　of　the　ancient
wall。

CHAPTER　III

THERE　were　grass…grown　tumuli　on　the　hills　to　which　of　old　I　used　to　walk；
sit　down　at　the　foot　of　one　of　them；　and　think。　Some　warrior　had　been
interred　there　in　the　antehistoric　times。　The　sun　of　the　summer　morning
shone　on　the　dome　of　sward；　and　the　air　came　softly　up　from　the　wheat　below；
the　tips　of　the　grasses　swayed　as　it　passed　sighing　faintly；　it　ceased；　and
the　bees　hummed　by　to　the　thyme　and　heathbells。　I　became　absorbed　in　the
glory　of　the　day；　the　sunshine；　the　sweet　air；　the　yellowing　corn　turning
from　its　sappy　green　to　summer's　noon　of　gold；　the　lark's　song　like　a
waterfall　in　the　sky。　I　felt　at　that　moment　that　I　was　like　the　spirit　of
the　man　whose　body　was　interred　in　the　tumulus；　I　could　understand　and　feel
his　existence　the　same　as　my　own。　He　was　as　real　to　me　two　thousand　years
after　interment　as　those　I　had　seen　in　the　body。　The　abstract　personality　of
the　dead　seemed　as　existent　as　thought。　As　my
thought　could　slip　back　the　twenty　centuries　in　a　moment　to　the　forest…days
when　he　hurled　the　spear；　or　shot　with　the　bow；　hunting　the　deer；　and　could
return　again　as　swiftly　to　this　moment；　so　his　spirit　could　endure　from　then
till　now；　and　the　time　was　nothing。

Two　thousand　years　being　a　second　to　the　soul　could　not　cause
its　extinction。　Itwas　no　longer　to　the　soul　than　my　thought　occupied　to　me。
Recognising　my　own　inner　consciousness；　the　psyche；　so　clearly；　death　did
not　seem　to　me　to　affect　the　personality。In　dissolution　there　was　no
bridgeless　chasm；　no　unfathomable　gulf　of　separation；　the　spirit　did　not
immediately　become　inaccesible；　leaping　at　a　bound　to　an　immeasurable
distance。　Look　at　another　person　while　living；
the　soul　is　not　visible；　only　the　body　which　it　animates。　　Therefore；　merely
because　after　death　the　soul　is　not　visible　is　no　demonstration　that　it　does
not　still　live。
The　condition　of　being　unseen　is　the　same　condition　which　occurs
while　the　body　is　living；　so　that　intrinsically　there　is　nothing
exceptionable；　or　supernatural；　in　the　life　of　the　soul　after　death。　Resting
by　the　tumulus；　the　spirit　of　the　man　who　had　been　interred　there　was　to　me
really　alive；　and　very　close。　This　was　quite　natural；　as　natural　and　simple
as　the　grass　waving　in　the　wind；　the　bees　humming；　and　the　larks'　songs。
Only　by　the　strongest　effort　of　the　mind　could　I　understand　the　idea　of
extinction；　that　was　supernatural；　requiring　a　miracle；　the　immortality　of
the　soul　natural；　like　earth。　Listening　to　the　sighing　of　the　grass　I　felt
immortality　as　I　felt　the　beauty　of　the　summer　morning；　and　I　thought　beyond
immortality；　of　other　conditions；　more　beautiful　than　existence；　higher　than
immortality。

That　there　is　no　knowing；　in　the　sense　of　written　reasons；
whether　the　soul　lives　on　or　not；　I　am　fully　aware。　I　do　not
hope　or　fear。　At　least　while　I　am　living　I　have　enjoyed　the
idea　of　immortality；　and　the　idea　of　my　own　soul。　If　then；
after　death；　I　am　resolved　without　exception　into　earth；　air；
and　water；　and　the　spirit　goes　out　like　a　flame；　still　I　shall
have　had　the　glory　of　that　thought。

It　happened　once　that　a　man　was　drowned　while　bathing；　and　his
body　was　placed　in　an　outhouse　near　the　garden。　I　passed　the
outhouse　continually；　sometimes　on　purpose　to　think　about　it；
and　it　always　seemed　to　me　that　the　man　was　still　living。
Separation　is　not　to　be　comprehended；　the　spirit　of　the　man　did　not　appear
to　have　gone　to　an　in　conceivable　distance。　As　my　thought　flashes　itself
back　through　the　centuries　to　the　luxury　of　Canopus；　and　can　see　the　gilded
couches　of　a　city　extinct；　so　it　slips　through　the　future；　and　immeasurable
time　in　front　is　no　bounandary　to　it。　Certainly　the　man　was　not　dead　to　me。

Sweetly　the　summer　air　came　up　to　the　tumulus；　the　grass　sighed　softly；　the
butterflies　went　by；　sometimes　alighting　on　the　green　dome。　Two　thousand
years！　Summer　after　summer　the　blue　butterflies　had　visited　the　mound；　the
thyme　had　flowered；　the　wind　sighed　in　the　grass。　　The　azure　morning　had
spread　its　arms　over　the　low　tomb；　and　full　glowing　noon　burned　on　it；　the
purple　of　sunset　rosied　the　sward。　　Stars；　ruddy　in　the　vapour　of　the
southern　horizon；　beamed　at　midnight　through　the　mystic　summer　night；　which
is　dusky　and　yet　full　of　light。　White　mists　swept　up　and　hid　it；　dews　rested
on　the　turf；　tender　harebells　drooped；　the　wings　of　the　finches　fanned　the
airfinches　whose　colours　faded　from　the　wings　how　many　centuries　ago！
Brown　autumn　dwelt　in　the　woods　beneath；　the　rime　of　winter　whitened　the
beech　clump　on　the　ridge；　again　the　buds　came　on　the　wind…blown　hawthorn
bushes；　and　in　the　evening　the　broad　constellation　of　Orion　covered　the
east。　Two　thousand　times！　Two　thousand　times　the　woods　grew　green；　and
ring…doves　built　their　nests。　　Day　and　night　for　two　thousand　yearslight
and　shadow　sweeping　over　the　moundtwo　thousand　years　of　labour　by　day　and
slumber　by　night。　Mystery　gleaming　in　the　stars；　pouring　down　in　the
sunshine；　speaking　in　the　night；　the　wonder　of　the　sun　and　of　far　space；　for
twenty　centuries　round　about　this　low　and　green…grown　dome。　　Yet　all　that
mystery　and　wonder　is　as　nothing　to　the　Thought　that　lies　therein；　to　the
spirit　that　I　feel　so　close。

Realising　that　spirit；　recognising　my　own　inner　consciousness；
the　psyche；　so　clearly；　I　cannot　understand　time。　It　is
eternity　now。　I　am　in　the　midst　of　it。　It　is　about　me　in　the
sunshine；　I　am　in　it；　as　the　butterfly　floats　in　the　light…laden
air。　Nothing　has　to　come；　it　is　now。　Now　is　eternity；　now　is
the　immortal　life。　Here　this　moment；　by　this　tumulus；　on　earth；
now；　I　exist　in　it。　The　years；　the　centuries；　the　cycles　are
absolutely　nothing；　it　is　only　a　moment　since　this　tumulus　was　raised；　in　a
thousand　years　it　will　still　be　only　a　moment。　To　the　soul　there　is　no　past
and　no