And then, too, I learnt that words are worlds.  At every breath, nay, by the slightest thought, we create planets.  Pray that they harmonize!  They have power.  Are they angels?  They convey our messages, but their harmony of inter-woven song and meaning was lost at Babel to our ears.  Yet by them if our will is strong and we do not fail in deeds we may take our part in the symphony as truly as life itself.  And so we must not use them idly.  How can anyone dare to tell a lie?  One begins to see how God is a Name.  I felt before how the secret of language was to be found among the sands.  It is because the sands are the nearest and most visible planets we possess.  Words are planets.  But planets are sands on the shore of eternity.  Words are sands.  We are little words made flesh, little echoes in the image of the great Word made Flesh.  His creation is the complete echo made flesh, His Image and likeness which He contemplates.  And so we are in our measure part of the song made flesh, and the little common words that we use are our brothers.

July 17.

The sunset tonight was a glorious crucifixion after the day of clouds.  It was human in its beckoning.  I cannot find the secret of the moon, but it reminds me of Lionel’s phrase, if it be his, “golden mediocrities.”  Is it the astral embodiment of “They also serve who only stand and wait”?  Why is it that the little human beauties of Nature pass me by as entities, and that I seek bare places?  Is there a parallel in my personal attitude toward all but those who are specially dear to me?  I thought of how I looked down on the city from the mountain in May, and felt the whole city to be my prayer.  It had been given into my control for a few minutes, and the only worthy use to which I could put it was to offer it up with a prayer for my people and all the desire of my heart that the prayer would be answered.  The half-million souls with all their dreams were under my care then, and their acts were mine.  So little are cities, and so little I found my worthiness that I could not hide my tears.  Later I crossed to the height looking down on the cemetery, the world was silent save for the flaming heart of the city pulsing below, and reflecting the Flaming Heart above as the sun set.  The woodpeckers did not fear me, and I sank slowly and deeply into God.  I think that some day I shall know His wounds.  I cannot understand why I was delivered from temptation at the moment that the city was put into my hands.

July 18.

...  I bathed on the dunes on Wonder Island.  The sun set tonight sacramentally just as it set that night at ——­ when I failed to speak.  Never had I felt stronger, but something held me back from telling him how the dearest wish of my life was that he should participate in the Holy Eucharist.  The flame was in my hands to lay upon his heart, but something bade me wait.  I distrusted it, and asked him to walk with me on the shore.  The thunder of the tide and the moon were too strong.  Why could I not have told him?  We were silent for hours while his heart lay with the Titanic, and even his little daughter was quiet in the room.