ransfigured stone, and the drama will be played in the open with
the stars above as orchestra, to which the human music will be but a
beautiful echo. To this Wagner and Craig point the way. I read
Patmore's _Two Infinities_ today with bewilderment and emphatic
disagreement. It seems absolutely lacking in vision, provincial,
almost challenging Creation. And yet it is essentially true. Christ
was a man of golden mediocrities. He speaks of the lilies of the
field, but never of stars or of planets. And St. Francis perhaps hints
at the solution. To him brother Wind and brother Fire and brother Worm
are alike and equal, for he sees them in the light of infinity. But
all are wonderful, and we must not sneer at the stars. ... Today
writing as a means of expression has seemed to be absolutely futile.
Silence is the only active way of praise that I can find, provided
that it informs some daily action. My will won again today. Horizons
are wonderful. S---- told me that Lionel invited him into his Oxford
rooms one evening at sunset and led him to a seat from which nothing
lower than the horizon was to be seen. "There," he said, "nothing
matters that is below that line." You see he knew that our souls in
their beauty are always above it.

August 3.

To watch a grass-blade tapping will teach you wonderful music--the
language of the wind. The sunlight running through my flesh in-flames
the song of the will. I lost myself tonight in the crowded silences.
Joy stays with me now, and if I can only join it to sorrow, the will
can then sing simply and freely a continuous song. The turning of the
tide is soon to come, and my homesickness for G----ville is
transforming itself into a different nostalgia. My planets are rising
in song like little candle flames. I wish I possessed their humility.
Within me tonight are quiet moonlit waters very full and rich with
silent promises of rest.

August 4.

At Mass today Mr. C---- showed a fine courtesy serving with the high
humility of a punctilious gentleman. ... Today I saw the body of
Christ, "infinite riches in a little room." The human body of Christ
in its passion is the sum of all our bodies, and it is this truth to
which pantheism in its blindness dimly beckons. The saints and pure
poets and those who have died for friends are the image of the Sacred
Heart, and in them at moments of pure _reflection_ there is naked
light and the vision which is insupportable. Hence in the greatest
sain