The early sunlight
filtered through the filmy draperies to where a wondering baby stretched his
dimpled hands to catch the rays that lit his face and flesh as dawn lights up a
rose. His startled gaze caught and held the dawn of day in rapturous looks that
spoke the dawn of Self, for with the morning gleam out came the greater wonder.
It was the mystery of Life.
Across a cradle where, sunk in satin pillows,
lay a still pale form as droops a rose from some fierce heat, the evening
shadows fell aslant, and spoke of peace. The twilight calm enclosed the world
in silence deep as Truth, and on the little face the wondering look had given
place to one of sweet repose. It was the mystery of Death.
At head and foot the tapers burned, a golden
light that clove the night as Hope the encircling gloom. Across the cot where
lay the fair, frail form, his hand reached out to hers and met and clasped in
tender, burning touch. Into the eyes of each there came the look that is the
light of life; that spoke of self to each, yet told they two were one. It was
the mystery to which the mysteries Life and Death bow down -the mystery of
Love.
James Hunt Cook
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