phant; it will grovel in the dust of entire pleasure; it will sound out like a terrific blare of trumpets; it will chime faintly, faintly like the remote tinkling notes of a harp; it will sob and grieve and weep; it will revel and carouse; it will shrink; it will go in pride; it will lie prone like the dead; it will float bouyantly on air; it will moan, shiver, burst—oh, it will reek with Love and Light!
The words of the English language are futile. There are no words in it, or in any other, to express an idea of that thing which would be my life in its Happiness.
The words I have written describe it, it is true,—but confusedly and inadequately.
But words are for everyday use.
When it comes my turn to meet face to face the unspeakable vision of the Happy Life I shall be rendered dumb.
But the rains of my feeling will come in torrents!
