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Poem	During those hours wherein we are lost so far from all that is not ourselves, what lustral blood or what baptism bathes our hearts that strain towards all love? Clasping our hands without praying, stretching out our arms without crying aloud, but with earnest and ingenuous mind worshipping something farther off and purer than ourselves, we know not what, how we blend with, how we live our lives in, the unknown. How overwhelmed we are in the presence of those hours of supreme existence; how the soul desires heavens in which to seek for new gods. Oh! the torturing and wondrous joy and the daring hope of being one day, across death itself, the prey of these silent terrors.
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