The Lighthouse

Its singularity is insular until it stirs itself and throws its restless particles away, out to the blackened, hungry sea, the heaving grace of irony whose understanding is but to receive and never to return. Now in the steady beam of sacrifice there is disclosed the synthesis of fire, that essential spirit stuff which place is only to destroy yet on its saving mission borne along on minute quanta, substance of the universe. I cherish that cold vision of a lonely cynosure upon the coast that draws me from the world and speaks of vigil to the night... speaks of faith where none is asked... speaks where time enfolds an unknown plain in its embrace of light. The lighthouse, that last ghost of mother shore and set apart like some evasive anchorite enchained in vows of silence, demonstrates its wisdom in th' immaculate restraint of modesty that we who write, audacious in pretensiousness, will never understand. ~