In discontented mood I sought the hills
At sunset, and looked down on busy mills
Belching vile smoke, which in the valley laid
An inky blot on a fair scene displayed.

There stood one with me who was pleased to claim
Nothing lacked beauty. This idea to shame
I said, "Work me a miracle to show
The good in that black blanket spread below."

"There are no miracles!" he said. With slow, strong lifts,
As flooding tide a bed of seaweed shifts,
It moved, then rose, and lo! the deed was wrought.
An opalescent cloud the last light caught.

No beauty in the landscape half so fair
As that, transformed, illumined, floating there.
So pure it seemed, it might have been the way
Along which fled the angel of the day.

Spellbound I could not turn away; but stayed.
And as the glory faded, humbly prayed,
"Let me be raised, eternal Good, above
The shadows, till I too reflect Thy love!"

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Principle, not Personality
May 15, 1902

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