Great Paper: "She" by H. Haggerd ~ Holly Wonders by Starlight ~

She from H. Rider Haggard

~ Holly Wonders by Starlight ~

The Narrator/ 1st person main character has just layed down for a rest after a full days hike through the wild bush of some African Savannah. He lies on his back and watches the night sky develop, wondering about the world.

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“So i lay and watched the stars come out by the thousands, till all the immense arch of heavens was strewn with glittering points, and every point a world!

Here was a common sight, by which man might well measure his own significance! Soon i gave up thinking about it, for the mind wears down easily when it strives to grapple the infinite and trace the footsteps of the almighty as he strides from sphere to sphere,

Or deduce His purpose from his his works.

Such things are not for us to know. Knowledge is is to the strong and we are weak. Too much wisdom would perchance blind our imperfect sight, and too much strength would make us drunk - overweight our feeble reason till it fell and we were drowned in the depths of our own vanity. For what is the first result of mans increased knowledge when interrupted from natures book by the persistent effort of his pure blind observation? Is it not but too often to make his question the existence of his maker, or indeed of any intelligent purpose beyond his own?

The Truth is Veiled because we could no more look upon her glory than we could look upon the sun. It would destroy us. Full knowledge is not for man as man is here, with his capacities which he is apt to think are great but are indeed small. The vessel of man is too soon filled, and where the one-thousandth part of unutterable and silent wisdom that directs the rolling of these shining spheres of knowledge and the natural force that makes them roll, pressed into Man, would be shattered into fragments. Perhaps in some other place and time it may be otherwise, who can tell? Here the lot of man; born of the flesh, is to but endure midst toil and tribulation. To catch at the bubbles blown by fate, which he calls pleasure, Thankful if before they burst they rest a moment in his hand. And when his hours comes for him to perish, to pass over humbly whether he knows true life or not.

Above me, as i lay, shone the eternal stars, and i wondered what perchance Man may one day be, if the living force who ordained him and them would ordain This also. Oh, that it might be ours to rest year by year upon that high level of heart. To which at times we momentarily attain! Oh, that we could shake loose the prisoned pinions of the soul and soar to that superior point, whence, like some traveller looking out through the space from Dariens giddiest peak, we might gaze with spiritual eyes deep into infinity.

What would it be to cast off this earthly robe, to have been done forever with these earthly thoughts and miserable desires; no longer, like these corpes candles, to be tossed this way and that, by the forces beyond our control; or which, if we can theoretically control them, we are at times driven by the exigencies of our nature to oby! Yes, to cast them off, to be done with the foul and the thorny places of the world; and too, these glittering points above me, to rest on high wrapped forever in the brightness of our better selves. Brightness that shines in us even now, as the fire faintly shines in those lurid balls. Lay down the littleness in that wide glory of our dreams, that invisible but fully circumforting Good, from which all truth and beauty comes!

These and many such thoughts passed through my mind that night. They came to torment me many more times. I say torment, for Alas! Thinking can only serve to measure out the helplessness of thought.

What is the purpose of our feeble crying in the awful silences of space? Can our dim intelligences read the secrets of that star strewn sky? Does any answer come out of it?

Never!

Never any at all. Nothing but echoes and empty visions. And yet we believe that there is an answer, and that upon a time a new dawn will come blushing down the ways of our enduring night. We believe it, for it’s reflected life force even now shines up continually in our hearts from beneath the horizon of our breast, and we call it hope.

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And we call it hope!!!!

Thats prenium Literature right there. 5 Star poetry! ☆☆☆☆☆ After reading this, im pretty sure the most average of peoples can become a Modern Day Shakespear.

All gracious regaurds to H. Rider Haggard, and his Epic Fiction "She".