I went to the House of the Chancellor, from the Hall of Learning where I was accepted by the Teacher. The house and the garden were one; suffused with the living and hope where thoughts grew. What Man now tends such Gardens?
I awoke with dreams of glory, not that of battle or strife, but what washes now and then through the souls together, anointing but not commanding, refreshing not oppressing those who would have it. I liked this dream.
Now seems the Spirit a frail and foreboding wraith, almost, insubstantial and imagined. It was a bright Energy then, a wisp who travelled ever between the living, breathing.
I was a little child, but the ways of Man were transfixed and suffused by Spirit; now just another frightened hostage in the poke, but then sublime, not a being but a breathing between living Men. I dreamed the dream eternal. The cruelty of the cold and death and suffering on the open plain was never there. But not a wistful Eden of a child, but sturdy and built to last. There is a season.
When. As though the Devil came to claim his land, and bitter winds blew onto Spring, shattering the magnolia buds, frozen through until they burst, a world was swept away. When it was there, I knew not Winter. I was very young and knew nothing of the perfidy of Man sometimes when innocence flourishes in the hearts of Men and fathers to apprehend a world that banished and forgot how cruel our Second Natures can turn like the slash of ice that slaps suddenly from the sullen sky. A fleeting glimpse it seems now into a world of beauty, when righteousness was not a frightened hostage of the cruel, but rather endowed by Creator like breath.
I went to the House of the Chancellor, from the Hall of Learning where I was accepted by the Teacher. The house and the garden were one; suffused with the living and hope where thoughts grew. What Man now tends such Gardens?
I awoke with dreams of glory, not that of battle or strife, but what washes now and then through the souls together, anointing but not commanding, refreshing not oppressing those who would have it. I liked this dream.
Now seems the Spirit a frail and foreboding wraith, almost, insubstantial and imagined. It was a bright Energy then, a wisp who travelled ever between the living, breathing.
I was a little child, but the ways of Man were transfixed and suffused by Spirit; now just another frightened hostage in the poke, but then sublime, not a being but a breathing between living Men. I dreamed the dream eternal. The cruelty of the cold and death and suffering on the open plain was never there. But not a wistful Eden of a child, but sturdy and built to last. There is a season.
When. As though the Devil came to claim his land, and bitter winds blew onto Spring, shattering the magnolia buds, frozen through until they burst, a world was swept away. When it was there, I knew not Winter. I was very young and knew nothing of the perfidy of Man sometimes when innocence flourishes in the hearts of Men and fathers to apprehend a world that banished and forgot how cruel our Second Natures can turn like the slash of ice that slaps suddenly from the sullen sky. A fleeting glimpse it seems now into a world of beauty, when righteousness was not a frightened hostage of the cruel, but rather endowed by Creator like breath.