THE SOUL OF THE CELL.
This crystal of Quartz,—the queen of its tribe,
Amethyst, Onyx, Chalcedony, Heliotrope, Agate,—
Some toiler of old Japan, the Artist fantastic,
Has polished to likeness of ice,
Ruining form to reveal it Fleche d'Amour
That the marvelous, delicate, hairlike inclosures
Of crystallizations foreign might please the beholder.
Herein worked the Infinite well,
And, let us say, too, the artisan patient,
To one limit—significant boundary!
HEALTH!
I request you to define it—configure the wonder
Of this dust-common, beneficent Gift.
Who lacks it, he knows quite precisely his want;
Who has it divulges precisely the thing.
Yet never man—scientist, poet, physician—
In words can portray it—the Soul of the Cell,
THAT lurks only in spheres of the Substance of Life;
Fares past the quartz and hides in the throat of the wearer.
Shuns diamond glory for greater of flesh;
Builds higher and higher to balance unstable
In beauty of male and in exquisite female,
And sends through the intricate meshwork of cells—
Sheer matter, kin of this quartz—
Its evidence: light-hue, radiance crimson,
Eye-gleam, pulse-throb, vigor and nerve-thrill
Of just that common, miraculous Gift,
HEALTH of a body wherein dwells soul.
THERE, say I, the Infinite worked well!
Come now to YOU the artisan's skill for this marvel,
Physical man: to refine and ennoble;
To reveal the inclosure of spirit unmarred,
And grow in the mobile, responsive flesh
Mind perfect, held fast in OUR Crystal superb,
The Universe complete.
—THE AUTHOR.