There was no question in my mind as to who had spoken. “It is I” can only be uttered in such a voice by one whose individuality is so vast as to be almost universal, one who has dipped in the ocean of the All, yet who knows the minute by reason of its own inclusiveness. Standing before me was the Beautiful Being, radiant in its own light. Had it been less lovely I might have gasped with wonder; but the very perfection of its form and presence diffused an atmosphere of calm. I marvelled not, because the state of my consciousness _was_ marvel. I was lifted so far above the commonplace that I had no standard by which to measure the experience of that moment. Imagine youth immortalised, the fleeting made eternal. Imagine the bloom of a child’s face and the eyes of the ages of knowledge. Imagine the brilliancy of a thousand lives concentrated in those eyes, and the smile upon the lips of a love so pure that it asks no answering love from those it smiles upon. But the language of earth cannot describe the unearthly, nor could the understanding of man grasp in a moment those joys which the Beautiful Being revealed to me in that hour of supreme life. For the possibilities of existence have been widened for me, the meanings of the soul have deepened. Those who behold the Beautiful Being are never the same again as they were before. They may forget for a time, and lose in the business of living the magic of that presence; but whenever they do remember, they are caught up again on the wings of the former rapture. It may happen to one who is living upon the earth; it may happen to one in the spaces between the stars; but the experience must be the same when it comes to all; for only to one in the state in which _it_ dwells could the Beautiful Being reveal itself at all. A SONG OF THE BEAUTIFUL BEING When you hear a rustling in the air, listen again: there may be something there. When you feel a warmth mysterious and lovely in the heart, there may be something there, something sent to you from a warm and lovely source. When a joy unknown fills your being, and your soul goes out, out ... toward some loved mystery, you know not where, know that the mystery itself is reaching toward you with warm and loving, though invisible, arms. We who live in the invisible are not invisible to each other. There are tender colours here and exquisite forms, and the eye gloats on beauty never seen upon the earth. Oh, the joy of simple life to be, and to sing in your soul all day as the bird sings to its mate! For you are singing to your mate whenever your soul sings. Did you fancy it was only the spring-time that thrilled you and moved you to listen to the rustling of wings? The spring-time of the heart is all time, and the autumn may never come.