Morning on the dunes.  A cold clear bath while mists drove over the sands.  Returning home, as I came to the deep sand on the road, I perceived the mystery of the resurrection of the body.  In death there is no physical decay.  The singing planets of the human body merely part to combine in other songs, recurring again in the end to their old disposal and song, exchanging other worlds for their own once more, and recurring to the first motif of the symphony.  I was sad this afternoon for the will failed me in my work.  Sitting on the sand this morning the singing dunes had attained to the harmony of silence.  All at once a little wisp of seaweed—­hardly more than a thread—­started to beat time upon the sands.  And then I knew and saw it to be in its happy beating the pulse that governed the music of the stars.  Can the heart conduct the symphony of the body?  Tonight the sun set, borne away—­a Grail—­by angels from the questing Galahad.  There was a great silence in my heart as I sat in the crowded room.

July 11.

A day of northeast wind and upward thunder.  The joy of the wind was in me, and I lost the sense of space.  The air was so buoyant that it was closely kin to the sea. ...  Today I succeeded a little better with my will.  I had a strange sensation this afternoon, which told me that bare lonely places are the only places to write drama, since there only can we find the pure dynamic forces of life disentangled from the subtle and complicated web of human ambitions and interests.  The air was very thin and clear at twilight, but the sun was hidden in the clouds. ...

July 12.

...  There was a great silence this evening in the crowded room.  Closing my eyes, I raised the upper lids as far as possible without seeing material things, and so saw myself in fearful wonder elevating the host and chalice on high.  I know now the inner meaning of “Domine, non sum dignus ut intres sub tecta mea.”  Under these two arched roofs of the eyes hidden from all light save Light, there is a secret dwelling. ...  A day of close-shrouded palling fog—­a chrism confirming the strength of beauty.

July 13.

This morning the wind blew through the fields of grass like countless angels in the courts of heaven.  Shadow and color and light and movement dancing before the first syllable of the Name.  A gull flew down almost to my hand, and the sunlight thundered in my ears.  Last night the sea was sadly purifying the earth.  I now understand the Washer of the Ford.  Majesty lies in darkness, and grief is only the privilege of seeing Majesty.  Today on the porch with closed eyes buried in my hands the winds swept over me in a torrent of living light.  A symphony is a wonderful symbol.  In the first place, it is music.  In the second place, it is a name of praise with four syllables.  Then it completes a cycle, and returns on a higher plane to the motif with which it began.  It is the history of a soul,