All things are one and dual--even I, and that is why you may find me. Oh, the charm of being free, to wander at will round the earth and heaven, and through the souls of men! I am lighter than the thistle-down, but more enduring than the stars: The permanent is impalpable, and only the impalpable endures. The road is not long which leads to the castle of dreams; the far-away is nearer than next-door, but only the dreamer finds it. When labour is light, the pay is sure; when the days are hard, their reward is tardy. Be glad, and I will repay you. I would write my name on the leaves of your heart, but only the angels can read the writing. Who bears my unknown name on the petals of his heart is accepted among the angels for the flower he is; his perfume reaches heaven. There is pollen in the heart, child of earth, and it fructifies the flowers of faith; There is faith in the soul, child of time, and it bears the seeds of all things. The seasons come and the seasons go, but the spring-time is eternal. I can find that in you which was lost in the April of the world. LETTER LII A HAPPY WIDOWER I MET a charming woman the other night, quite different from anyone else I have met heretofore. She was no less a woman because she weighed perhaps a milligramme instead of one hundred and thirty pounds. I was passing along a quiet road, and saw her standing by a fountain. Who had created the fountain? I cannot say. There are sculptors in this world who mould for the love of the work more beautiful fountains than your sculptors mould for money. The joy of the workman in his work! Why, that _is_ heaven, is it not? I saw a beautiful woman standing by a fountain; and as I love beauty, whether in fountains or in women, I paused to regard both. The lovelier of the two looked up and laughed. “I was wishing for someone to talk to,” she said. “What a wonderful world this is!” “I am glad you find it so,” I answered. “I also do not agree with the old woman who declared that heaven was a much overrated place.” “You don’t remember me, do you?” she asked. “No. Have we met before?” “We have. And, of course, you could remember me, if you should try.” Then I recalled who she was. We had met some years before on one of my journeys to New York, and I had talked with her about the mysteries of life and death, of will and destiny. “I have tested many of the things you told me,” she went on, “and I have found them true.” “What things, for instance?” “First and most important, that man may create his own environment.” “You can easily demonstrate that here,” I said. “But how long have you been in this world?” “Only a few months.” “And how did you come out?” “I died of too much joy.”