At dawn, the tired world not yet awake,I rose and sought the quiet water's edge;And on the placid surface of the lakeEach purple ridge, each cliff and rocky ledge,Each silent cedar, pine, and paling starReflected lay, and imaged forth, sereneAnd still—no breeze to ruffle or to marThe calm and beauty of the encircling scene.The snow-crowned peaks, their mighty summits proud,Looked down on snow-crowned peaks as proud as they,While fleecy cloud looked up at fleecy cloud,Both fringed with gold to greet the coming day.So perfect was the mirrored form and hueI scarce could tell the image from the true.

And as I gazed in awe and wondermentUpon the breathless beauty of the morn,A still, small voice, an angel visitantFrom heaven, on gentle wings of love was borne."O child," it whispered in my waiting breast,"O little child, would you the secret learn?Would you from weary care and sorrow rest,And in this peaceful place God's face discern?Know then that as the bosom of the lakeReflects the glories which encompass it,So you, God's image, ever must partakeOf all the glories of the infinite.Be still; in stillness only can you findThat you reflect the peace and power of Mind."

November 30, 1935

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