“We live together years and years,
And leave unsounded still
Each other’s springs of hopes and fears,
Each other’s depths of will;
We live together days by day,
And some chance look or tone
Lights up with instantaneous ray
An inner world unknown.”
In a sense, all life is hidden. The blood courses through the veins as the heart keeps throbbing, throbbing, day and night. You can lay your finger on your wrist and feel the pulsings. The lungs also continue breathing, inhaling, exhaling, without pause, from infancy’s first gasp until at last watching friends say, “He is gone!” Pulsings, breathings — yes; but have you found the life? What is it that keeps the heart throbbing and the lungs respiring? “Life,” you say. Yes, but what is life?
Take the mind. It is very active. One man thinks, and writes beautiful poems or charming stories. Another thinks and puts marvelous visions on canvas, or throws great bridges over rivers, or erects a noble cathedral. But who ever saw the process of thought? Mental life is hidden.
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