times--toward the scientific
man who lives around the corner of my mind. It seems to me he is
always suggesting important-looking unimportant things. I have days of
sympathizing with him, of rolling his great useless heavy-empty pack
up upon my shoulders and strapping it there. But before I know it I'm
off. I throw it away or melt it down into a tablet or something--put
it in my pocket. I walk jauntily before God.

And the worst of it is, I think He intended me to. I think He intended
me to know and to keep knowing daily what He has done for me and is
doing now, out in the universe, and what He has made me to do. I also
am a God. From the first time I saw the sun I have been one daily. I
have performed daily all the homelier miracles and all the common
functions of a God. I have breathed the Invisible into my being. Out
of the air of heaven I have made flesh. I have taken earth from the
earth and burned it within me and made it into prayers and into songs.
I have said to my soul "To eat is to sing." I worship all over. I am
my own sacrament. I lay before God nights of sleep, and the delight
and wonder of the flesh I render back to Him again, daily, as an
offering in His sight.

And what is true of my literal body--of the joy of my hands and my
feet, is still more true of the hands of my hands.

When I wake in the night and send forth my thought upon the darkness,
track out my own infinity in it, feel my vast body of earth and sky
reaching around me, all telegraphed through with thought, and floored
with steel, I may have to grope for a God a little (I do sometimes),
but I do it with loud cheers. I sing before the door of heaven if
there is a heaven or needs to be a heaven. When I look upon the glory
of the other worlds, has not science itself told me that they are a
part of me and I a part of them? Nothing is that would not be
different without something else. My thoughts are ticking through the
clouds, and the great sun itself is creeping through me daily down in
my bones. The steam cloud hurries for me on a hundred seas. I turn
over in my sleep at midnight and lay my hand on the noon. And when I
have slept and walk forth in the morning, the stars flow in my veins.
Why should a man dare to whine? "Whine not at me!" I have said to man
my brother. If you cannot sing to me do not interrupt me.

Let him sing to me
Who sees the watching of the stars above the day,
Who hears the singing of the sunrise
On its wa