For whilst our
Hearts on Terrhen things we place, There cannot be least hope of
Divine grace.
'Just such a mill is my mind,' he said to himself. 'But can I
suppose that to sit down and read all day like a monk, would bring
me nearer to the thing I want?'
He turned over the volume half thinking, half brooding.
'I will look again,' he thought, 'at the verses which that day my
father gave me to read. Truly I did not well understand them.'
Once more he read the poem through. It closed with these lines:
So far this Light the Raies extends, As that no place It
comprehends. So deepe this Sound, that though it speake, It cannot
by a Sence so weake Be entertain'd. A Redolent Grace The Aire blowes
not from place to place. A pleasant Taste, of that delight It doth
confound all appetite. A strict Embrace, not felt, yet leaves That
vertue, where it takes it cleaves. This Light, this Sound, this
Savouring Grace, This Tastefull Sweet, this Strict Embrace, No Place
containes, no Eye can see, My God is; and there's none but Hee.
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