In the actual world--the painful kingdom of time and place--dwell care, and canker, and fear. With thought, with the ideal, is immortal hilarity, the rose of joy.
It is true that genius takes its rise out of the mountains of rectitude; that all beauty and power which men covet are somehow born out of that Alpine district; that any extraordinary degree of beauty in man or woman involves a moral charm.
When we see a soul whose acts are all regal, graceful, and pleasant as roses, we must thank God that such things can be and are.
There is simply the rose; it is perfect in every moment of its existence.
With thought, with the ideal, is immortal hilarity, the rose of joy. Round it all the muses sing.
The mind does not create what it perceives, any more than the eye creates the rose.
The roses under my window make no reference to former roses or better ones; they are what they are; they exist with God today. There is no time to them. There is simply the rose; it is perfect in every moment of its existence.