Or is the singer silent, or does the artist put aside his paints, or has the orator stopt talking, because something greater than song or art or eloquence has appeared in the face of the multitude?
How are you, dear world, this morning?
We have had confidences other days but somehow the confidences of this day are sweetest of all,
They find me where I am remote, they seek me out where I am reluctant, they confirm me where I am weak,
They melt me down from flaw and angle into purity and circle,
They interpret me to last night’s strangers and they introduce me to the real meanings of my vagrant past,
They remove me from my quarrels and they deliver me to truce and peace.
For now I see that when of old I thought of justice and believed I was dreaming that only then was I awake,
For now I see that the wrongdoer is the first to withdraw wrong and is the only one who can withdraw it,
For now I see that all the effort I spent trying to discover why lives were beautiful or ugly has shown me that all ugliness and all beauty finally must lapse in one transfiguration,