In the watcher's heart, too, had come another Spring, for once in time
and tune with the outer world. The heart's seasons seldom coincide with
the calendar. Who among us has not been made desolate beyond all words
upon some golden day when the little creatures of the air and meadow
were life incarnate, from sheer joy of living? Who among us has not come
home, singing, when the streets were almost impassable with snow, or met
a friend with a happy, smiling face, in the midst of a pouring rain?
The soul, too, has its own hours of Winter and Spring. Gethsemane and
Calvary may come to us in the time of roses and Easter rise upon us in a
December night. How shall we know, in our own agony, of another's
gladness, or, on that blessed to-morrow when the struggle is over, help
someone else to bear our own forgotten pain?
True sympathy is possible only when the season of one soul accords with
that of another, or else when memory, divinely tender, brings back a
vivid, scarlet hour out of grey, forgotten days, to enable us to share,
with another, his own full measure of sorrow or of joy.
Pages:
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117