Are scribbled o’er thy soul.”
must have the power to sense the keener air of the subtle life and grasp its glorious promise.
What pilgrim of the path has not felt:
“Hard-paced the iron years have gone
Over my head since then;
I’ve haunted in a waking dream
The paths of living men;
But of this world my kingdom’s not,
Like him of Galilee,
For I grasp hands they cannot feel,