To him it is the shining light away in the mists of antiquity; it is the strong sun over the living world; it is the pillar of fire over the widening seas and worlds of the unknown; it is the expanse of infinity.

When he is lost in its mystery he adverts to the wonder about him, for all that is wonderful is touched with it, and all that is lovely is its expression.

It is in the breath of the wind, pure and bracing from the mountain top.

It is in the song of the lark holding his musical revel in the sunlight.

It is in the ecstasy of a Spring morning.