Yes, lying here in this sun-filled meadow on this summer morning, I am conscious that I love my life, and that I should be loath to leave it. I love to feel the wind upon my cheek, and to hear it as it whistles by me, singing in my ears, as in the hollow convolutions of a shell. I love to stand and look out upon the sea, or upon open plains and broad sky-spaces, which give us _eyesight room_ and room for our souls to be. I love to lie and listen to the song of the wind among the pine-trees,--the "sailing" pine trees,--and to watch them swing and sway like storm-tossed barks at sea. I love to see the rook beat up against the wind, and poise and hover and soar, and slide down upon the edge of the blast with rigid blade-like wings that shear the air like a knife. And when I watch him cut the ether in circles as full and fair as the curves of a woman's bosom, I think of him less as a bird than as some winged artist of the heights, who delights in flowing line, and grace of form and feature; and I too feel buoyant and airy, and to my very limbs is lent the lightness of his flight. I love, too, the companionship of those who love the things that I love--my spiritual brethren and fellow-worshippers; for, to my thinking, the lovers of Art, Music, Nature, Poetry, or of Religion, are all of them in one attitude of mind, and are animated by one and the same spirit--I call it the Worshipping Spirit. It may body itself forth in the homage-love of the musician for harmony, in the artist-worship of sensuous beauty, or, highest of all, in the adoration of Christ and of that which is spiritually perfect; and yet all these loves are not many loves, but one love, for they are but different expressions of one and the same spirit. Hence to turn from a chapter of St. John to a sunset, a sonnet from Wordsworth, or a picture by Botticelli, is to me not unseemly, but natural, for each of these arouses, in different degrees, one and the same emotion, and that emotion has its source in one and the same Worshipping Spirit.