On The Art of Reading

Man, the microcosm: on you, on me, on the tiny percipient centre upon which the immense cosmic circle focuses itself as the sun upon a burning-glass-and he is not

n the great pageant but 'the ring enclosing all,' the sole int

But I will quote you here two short passages from the work of a sort of poor relation of theirs, a humble Welsh parson of that time, Thomas Traherne- unknown un

never should be reaped, nor was ever sown. I thought it had stood from everlasting to everlasting. The dust and stones of the street were as precious as gold: the gates were at first the end of the world. The

ere mine, as much as their sparkling eyes, fair skins and ruddy faces. The skies were mine, and so we

h

foreign co

ure and my wea

did my he

call my Soul

ither we

roachin

he thres

n the unkno

d instinct

ldhood with a

force move

oys beyond the

ity I

ut of

ng here

t happine

me! F

ed absen

that sure be

something n

t (since naug

y Bliss d

did the i

reasures of th

mself was s

ll which round

it was:

Di

g enclo

upon this e

eaven

er than

ey all inc

Soul, that

ssess them

and litt

ce of which I promised you that

tself floweth in your veins, till you are cloth

I, any one of us-t

m caput tumul

s out in tune with the heavenly concert-a