without a word spoken a feeling stirs, in the meadow or the pond, in the air or the sunlit bed.
For it is as the eye, that falls on the beautiful that one's hand must close, or one's eye and ears must shutter, or one's whole being burn as a torch.
Words seem to fail,
yet like one of the hands that raises the blue,
fish in the lake.
It is as the hand that closes the eye, that one of the voices heard falls silent.
Suddenly the silence is rent, in shards by the singing; the very house, now laughs as at the jest of a friend.
Thus the Song of the World, is sung from distant lands, that shiver with it, a song that speaks of love, in myriad forms, among sky, earth, sea, sun, and moon, and thus it is sung in joy, where deep forests brook; and it is sung in lament, when anger breaks out against the cruel.
It is sung by, fathers who are weary, mothers who weep, old people who know their hour is nigh. The world rejoices, when the song is heard ... a mother's and a father's heart is glad, when the song is sung... even a soldier, on his vended knee, is silent in awe.,One of the elder trees, the live oak, branches bend with the song.
another, the tamarack, sputters in great summer flames, The joyous war song of birds at night, and the silent dawn chorus, glorious among the millions, of whispers that the soul soaks with the song of life. It is as the flute that plays over the hill and soothes the mournful heart; it is as the sound of the babbling brook, that cleanses the poor from the stains of sin.
And thus we sing of human love, With words it may be said, that it is a love without names; but with heart we know that the love is not of this world.
Thus the Song of Life, is sung in the slums and in the rags and in the cottages where hope is scarce; in the hard, long roads where naught is pretty; and in the lonely graves, for whose memories songs grow sad.
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