or other than these
be seen or mentioned! In this realm, the first is the last itself, and the
last is but the first.

In thy soul of love build thou a fire
And burn all thoughts and words entire.(49)

O my friend, look upon thyself: Hadst thou not become a father nor
begotten a son, neither wouldst thou have heard these sayings. Now forget
them all, that thou mayest learn from the Master of Love in the
schoolhouse of oneness, and return unto God, and forsake the inner land of
unreality(50) for thy true station, and dwell within the shadow of the
tree of knowledge.

O thou dear one! Impoverish thyself, that thou mayest enter the high court
of riches; and humble thy body, that thou mayest drink from the river of
glory, and attain to the full meaning of the poems whereof thou hadst
asked.

Thus it hath been made clear that these stages depend on the vision of the
wayfarer. In every city he will behold a world, in every Valley reach a
spring, in every meadow hear a song. But the falcon of the mystic heaven
hath many a wondrous carol of the spirit in His breast, and the Persian
bird keepeth in His soul many a sweet Arab melody; yet these are hidden,
and hidden shall remain.

If I speak forth, many a mind will shatter,
And if I write, many a pen will break.(51) ,(52)

Peace be upon him who concludeth this exalted journey and followeth the
True One by the lights of guidance.

And the wayfarer, after traversing the high planes of this supernal
journey, entereth

The Valley of Contentment

In this Valley he feeleth the winds of divine contentment blowing from the
plane of the spirit. He burneth away the veils of want, and with inward
and outward eye, perceiveth within and without all things the day of: "God
will compensate each one out of His abundance."(53) From sorrow he turneth
to bliss, from anguish to joy. His grief and mourning yield to delight and
rapture.

Although to outward view, the wayfarers in this Valley may dwell upon the
dust, yet inwardly they are throned in the heights of mystic meaning; they
eat of the endless bounties of inner significances, and drink of the
delicate wines of the spirit.

The tongue faileth in describing these three Valleys, and speech falleth
short. The pen steppeth not into this region, the ink leaveth only a blot.
In these planes, the nightingale of the heart hath other songs and
secrets, which make the heart to stir and the soul to clamor, but this
mystery