e privilege of laughing into the Eyes
of God, those Eyes before which the angels veil their faces. It is the
privilege of smelling the blossom of the Living Rose, of tasting and
consuming forever the Body and Blood, of touching the Sacred Knees,
and of hearing the Divinity who is Music. Priests and poets shall swim
in the song of his heart, and those who have died for friends will
reflect its resolving rhythm. How I pity Blake his pride, though he
was preserved from the pride of humility. God will let me see more of
Him in this life than Blake did, though it is of the most trifling
significance to anticipate eternity in poor time, the crippled heir of
original sin. Since it is to be, I wish with all my blood that my will
were worthier.

August 6.

A day of happy drudgery reading proofs. I rode through them in the
winds of eternity. That is the secret of it all,--to teach us joy. The
human symbol of it is a martyr's ecstasy, which is in no way sensuous
or voluptuous since it has completely forgotten the body. The Sacred
Heart is the Mystical Rose spreading its petals over the Cross of
Time. In _Flame and Dew_ is the first application of an idea and
belief that the day will come when anthologies will be books
containing the wisdom of the poets on special sciences, such as the
science of childhood, the science of love, the science of death, and
the science of silence.

August 7.

Imagination being Eternal Life, it shows the blind instinct of
language that the word should mean the creation of images. Imagination
is the instrument of God's creation in his own _image_ and likeness.
Today I came to Petrarch and Dante--the mystics of the supreme
elements. To contrast their serenity with Blake's wrath shows the
whiter heights. All height is inward through narrow circles to the
Central Fire of Silent Love from which the angels shrink in spiral
messages of inspiring flame, and toward which humanity aspires in
narrowing and advancing circles of expiring flesh. But depth is
outward to the hearts of men. Sirius sings to my living stars tonight
its light in the music of the ancient winds, telling me of the
crucifixion in burning colors of a dying world. Why am I unworthy of
an equal death? The blood runs toward it in a passion of harmony. The
day is near when my morning stars shall sing their lives out together
in praise of their Creator, though it is futile to measure it in terms
of time. One is not curious of time if one l