I am not to be put aside with any talk about stocks, and duties, and
respectability: all these, though very eminent matters, are but so many
types in the volume of your thought; and your eager resolves about them
are but so many ambitious waves breaking up from that great sea of
dreamy speculation that has spread over your soul from its first start
into the realm of Consciousness.
No man's brain is so dull, and no man's eye so blind, that they cannot
catch food for dreams. Each little episode of life is full, had we but
the perception of its fulness. There is no such thing as blank in the
world of thought. Every action and emotion have their development
growing and gaining on the soul. Every affection has its tears and
smiles. Nay, the very material world is full of meaning, and by
suggesting thought is making us what we are and what we will be.
The sparrow that is twittering on the edge of my balcony is calling up
to me this moment a world of memories that reach over half my lifetime,
and a world of hope that stretches farther than any flight of sparrows.
The rose-tree which shades his mottled coat is full of buds and
blossoms; and each bud and blossom is a token of promise that has
issues covering life, and reaching beyond death.
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