is the courtesy we pay as gentlemen to God.  We may only read the stars in little children’s eyes, wherein their future is concealed.  The breast of Mary is the fountain of the stars, and round it fly the seraphim in flaming adoration of the blessed womb.  Her eyes are God’s dew, wherein the secret of His Light is whispered by the thrones.  I felt through the morning His human Presence graciously walking the roads, and I was resting on His left Arm that brought me to His Heart, the country wherein the dreams of my will are born.

August 12.

I have been sick today.  Rain and tempest, but God was on the wind, and
I am happy.

August 13.

Still ill.  Rain and fog with intermittent sunshine.  But I am as happy as I have ever been.

August 14.

Still ill.  Fog in the morning breaking into a wonderful pearl day of summer haze.  Our bodily senses are instruments in our orchestra.

August 15.

Today I sank into Beauty several times in the sunlight.

August 16.

Read through the last proofs and on the dunes with my mother in the afternoon I lived in the light of God.  The sun I caused to smile and I wrapped myself in the blue of the Virgin’s sky.  I found myself causing a shower twice by failing in humility.  But the laughing Light of God’s eyes in my soul is eternal, and when I submit it controls the tides of my body and mind.  Tonight a woodpecker alighted on Father K——­’s shoulder and stayed with him nearby.  The Brahmin may attain to the shadow of the first syllable of the Word.  He does not believe that there are others. Om is simply the symbol of inward breath, inspiration.  I heard myself today very near to the Heart of Silence, whose systole and diastole is the ebb and flow of Love from Eternity to Eternity.  Time is the sound of silence and is dead to all eternity.  It is the only beautiful death that the angels do not mourn, for in the death of Time is the Redemption of the World.  It takes the circle of eternity to unite the four points of the cross, and a crucifixion to unite two parallel lines.

August 17.

Out of the summer I am weaving the pattern web of the future in threads of desire.  Every resurrection of a body is the last judgment of infinite planets, which fly to or flee from the human song of God’s first syllable.  Yet those that flee may be purchased by an infinite Redemption.  This opens a terrible possibility of mercy.  Is God continually becoming man for the love of His image?  This is the joyful secret of God’s sad fourth syllable.  I clothe it in words to guard it from my intellect.  Infinite incarnations prove time an illusion, since they make it eternity.  God’s Sacred Heart is the silent ocean beyond the universe.  It reflects.  The Incarnation is its flood.  The Host tonight was more white than shining silver in a lonely pearl sky.  It was Absolute Music unveiled to the human eye.  Tonight I stood out for long alone with