This, the old doctrine of the microcosm, seems in certain moments, moments one would wish to say, of divination, strangely plain and clear—when, in Blake's words, it seems so easy to
'... see a world in a grain of sand,
And a heaven in a wild flower;
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand
And Eternity in an hour.'
Perhaps in the street, an effect of light, a passing face, yes, even the plaintive grind of a street organ, some such everyday circum
stance, affects you suddenly in quite a strange way. It has become universalised. It is no longer a detail of the Strand, but a cryptic symbol of human life. It has been transfigured into a thing of infinite pathos and infinite beauty, and, sad or glad, brings to you an inexplicable sense of peace, an unshakable conviction that man is a spirit, that his life is indeed of supreme and lovely significance, and that his destiny is secure and blessed.
Matthew Arnold, ever sensitive to such spiritual states, has described these trance-like visitations in 'The Buried Life'—
'Only, but this is rare—
When a beloved hand is laid in ours,