"Lift up your heads, O, ye gates; and be ye lifted up, ye everlasting doors, and our King of glory shall come in!" The purple flowers, the little purple flowers, are His eyes, looking at us.

We kiss them, and kneel alone on the flat, rejoicing over them.

And the wilderness and the solitary place shall be glad for Him, and the desert shall rejoice and blossom as a rose.
If ever, in our tearful, joyful ecstasy, the poor, sleepy, half-dead devil should raise his head, we laugh at him.

It is not his hour now.
"If there should be a hell, after all!" he mutters.

"If your God should be cruel! If there should be no God! If you should find out it is all imagination! If--" We laugh at him.