LILITH A Fantasy Novel By George MacDonald - online book

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338                                 LILITH
words, no likenesses or imaginations exist, wherewithal to describe them. Full indeed—yet ever expanding, ever making room to receive—was the conscious being where things kept entering by so many open doors! When a little breeze brushing a bush of heather set its purple bells a ringing, I was myself in the joy of the bells, myself in the joy of the breeze to which re­sponded their sweet tin-tinning' myself in the joy of the sense, and of the soul that received all the joys together. To everything glad I lent the hall of my being wherein to revel. I was a peaceful ocean upon which the ground-swell of a living joy was continually lifting new waves ; yet was the joy ever the same joy, the eternal joy, with tens of thousands of changing forms. Life was a cosmic holiday.
Now I knew that life and truth were one ; that life mere and pure is in itself bliss ; that where being is not bliss, it is not life, but life-in-death. Every inspi­ration of the dark wind that blew where it listed, went out a sigh of thanksgiving. At last I was ! I lived, and nothing could touch my life ! My darling walked beside me, and we were on our way home to the Father !
So much was ours ere ever the first sun rose upon our freedom : what must not the eternal day bring with it!
"We came to the fearful hollow were once had wal­lowed the monsters of the earth : it was indeed, as I had beheld it in my dream, a lovely lake. I gazed into its pellucid depths. A whirlpool had swept out the soil in which the abortions burrowed, and at
' Tin tin sonando con si dolce nota
Che '1 ben disposto spirto d' amor turge. Bel Paradiso, x. 142.
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