III

Beyond our power of vision, poets say, There is another world of forms unseen, Yet visible to purer eyes than ours. And if the crystal of our sight were clear,

We should behold the mountain-slopes of cloud, The moving meadows of the untilled sea, The groves of twilight and the dales of dawn, And every wide and lonely field of air,

More populous than cities, crowded close With living creatures of all shapes and hues. But if that sight were ours, the things that now Engage our eyes would seem but dull and dim

Beside the wonders of our new-found world, And we should be amazed and overwhelmed Not knowing how to use the plenitude Of vision.

So in Vera's soul, at first, The opening of the second gate of sound Let in confusion like a whirling flood. The murmur of a myriad-throated mob;

The trampling of an army through a place Where echoes hide; the sudden, whistling flight Of an innumerable flock of birds Along the highway of the midnight sky;

The many-whispered rustling of the reeds Beneath the passing feet of all the winds; The long-drawn, inarticulate, wailing cry Of million-pebbled beaches when the lash

Of stormy waves is drawn across their back,— All these were less bewildering than to hear What now she heard at once: the tangled sound Of all that moves within the minds of men.

For now there was no measured flow of words To mark the time; nor any interval Of silence to repose the listening ear. But through the dead of night, and through the calm

Of weary noon-tide, through the solemn hush That fills the temple in the pause of praise, And through the breathless awe in rooms of death, She heard the ceaseless motion and the stir

Of never-silent hearts, that fill the world With interwoven thoughts of good and ill, With mingled music of delight and grief, With songs of love, and bitter cries of hate,

With hymns of faith, and dirges of despair, And murmurs deeper and more vague than all,— Thoughts that are born and die without a name, Or rather, never die, but haunt the soul,

With sad persistence, till a name is given. These Vera heard, at first with mind perplexed And half-benumbed by the disordered sound. But soon a clearer sense began to pierce

The cloudy turmoil with discerning power. She learned to know the tones of human thought As plainly as she knew the tones of speech. She could divide the evil from the good,

Interpreting the language of the mind, And tracing every feeling like a thread Within the mystic web the passions weave From heart to heart around the living world.

But when at last the Master's second gift Was perfected within her, and she heard And understood the secret thoughts of men, A sadness fell upon her, and the load

Of insupportable knowledge pressed her down With weary wishes to know more, or less. For all she knew was like a broken word Inscribed upon the fragment of a ring;

And all she heard was like a broken strain Preluding music that is never played. Then she remembered in her sad unrest The Master's parting word,— “a path to peace,” —

And turned again to seek him with her grief. She found him in a hollow of the hills, Beside a little spring that issued forth Beneath the rocks and filled a mossy cup

With never-failing water. There he sat, With waiting looks that welcomed her afar. “I know that thou hast heard, my child,” he said, “For all the wonder of the world of sound

Is written in thy face. But hast thou heard, Among the many voices, one of peace? And is thy heart that hears the secret thoughts, The hidden wishes and desires of men,

Content with hearing? Art thou satisfied?” “Nay, Master,” she replied, “thou knowest well That I am not at rest, nor have I heard The voice of perfect peace; but what I hear

Brings me disquiet and a troubled mind. The evil voices in the souls of men, Voices of rage and cruelty and fear Have not dismayed me; for I have believed

The voices of the good, the kind, the true, Are more in number and excel in strength. There is more love than hate, more hope than fear, In the deep throbbing of the human heart.

But while I listen to the troubled sound, One thing torments me, and destroys my rest And presses me with dull, unceasing pain. For out of all the minds of all mankind,

There rises evermore a questioning voice That asks the meaning of this mighty world And finds no answer,— asks, and asks again, With patient pleading or with wild complaint,

But wakens no response, except the sound Of other questions, wandering to and fro, From other souls in doubt. And so this voice Persists above all others that I hear,

And binds them up together into one, Until the mingled murmur of the world Sounds through the inner temple of my heart Like an eternal question, vainly asked

By every human soul that thinks and feels. This is the heaviness that weighs me down, And this the pain that will not let me rest. Therefore, dear Master, shut the gates again,

And let me live in silence as before! Or else,— and if there is indeed a gate Unopened yet, through which I might receive An answer in the voice of perfect peace —”

She ceased; and in her upward faltering tone The question echoed. Then the Master said: “There is another gate, not yet unclosed.

For through the outer portal of the ear Only the outer voice of things may pass; And through the middle doorway of the mind Only the half-formed voice of human thoughts,

Uncertain and perplexed with endless doubt; But through the inmost gate the spirit hears The voice of that great Spirit who is Life. Beneath the tones of living things He breathes

A deeper tone than ever ear hath heard; And underneath the troubled thoughts of men He thinks forever, and His thought is peace. Behold, I touch thee once again, my child:

The third and last of those three hidden gates That closed around thy soul and shut thee in, Is open now, and thou shalt truly hear.” Then Vera heard. The spiritual gate

Was opened softly as a full-blown flower Unfolds its heart to welcome in the dawn, And on her listening face there shone a light Of still amazement and completed joy

In the full gift of hearing. What she heard I cannot tell; nor could she ever tell In words; because all human words are vain.

There is no speech nor language, to express The secret messages of God, that make Perpetual music in the hearing heart. Below the voice of waters, and above

The wandering voice of winds, and underneath The song of birds, and all the varying tones Of living things that fill the world with sound, God spoke to her, and what she heard was peace.

So when the Master questioned, “Dost thou hear?” She answered, “Yea, at last I hear.” And then He asked her once again, “What hearest thou? What means the voice of Life?” She answered, “Love!

For love is life, and they who do not love Are not alive. But every soul that loves, Lives in the heart of God and hears Him speak.”