There
beyond the Gates the radiant Presences move mysteriously. Thence at the
appointed time the Voice cries and they are opened with a sound like to
that of deepest thunder, or sometimes are burned away, while from the
Glory that lies beyond flow the sweet-faced welcomers to greet those for
whom they wait, bearing the cups from which they give to drink. I do
not know what is in the cups, whether it be a draught of Lethe or
some baptismal water of new birth, or both; but always the thirsting,
world-worn soul appears to change, and then as it were to be lost in the
Presence that gave the cup. At least they are lost to my sight. I see
them no more.
Why do I watch those Gates, in truth or in dream, before my time? Oh!
You can guess. That perchance I may behold those for whom my heart burns
with a quenchless, eating fire. And once I beheld--not the mother but
the child, my child, changed indeed, mysterious, wonderful, gleaming
like a star, with eyes so deep that in their depths my humanity seemed
to swoon.
She came forward; she knew me; she smiled and laid her finger on her
lips. She shook her hair about her and in it vanished as in a cloud. Yet
as she vanished a voice spoke in my heart, her voice, and the words it
said were--
"Wait, our Beloved! Wait!"
Mark well. "Our Beloved," not "My Beloved." So there are others by whom
I am beloved, or at least one other, and I know well who that one must
be.
*****
After this dream, perhaps I had better call it a dream, I was ill for a
long while, for the joy and the glory of it overpowered me and brought
me near to the death I had always sought.
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