TIME PASSESwhich, did we deserve them, should be ours always.But alas, divine goodness, twitching the cord, drawsthe curtain; it does not please him; he covers histreasures in a drench of hail, and so breaks them,so confuses them that it seems impossible that theircalm should ever return or that we should ever com-pose from their fragments a perfect whole or readin the littered pieces the clear words of truth. Forour penitence deserves a glimpse only; our toilrespite only.

The nights now are full of wind and destruction;the trees plunge and bend and their leaves fly helterskelter until the lawn is plastered with them andthey lie packed in gutters and choke rain pipes andscatter damp paths. Also the sea tosses itself andbreaks itself, and should any sleeper fancying thathe might find on the beach an answer to his doubts,a sharer of his solitude, throw off his bedclothes andgo down by himself to walk on the sand, no imagewith semblance of serving and divine promptitudecomes readily to hand bringing the night to orderand making the world reflect the compass of the soul.The hand dwindles in his hand; the voice bellows inhis ear. Almost it would appear that it is uselessin such confusion to ask the night those questions asto what, and why, and wherefore, which tempt thesleeper from his bed to seek an answer.193
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