When The Curtain Falls No One Is

Perhaps The Old Monks Were Right When They Tried To Root Love Out; Perhaps The Poets Are Right When They Try To Water It. It Is A Blood-red Flower, With The Color Of Sin; But There Is Always The Scent Of A God About It.

To Us, From The Beginning, Nature Has Been But A Poor Plastic Thing, To Be Toyed With This Way Or That, As Man Happens To Please His Deity Or Not; To Go To Church Or Not; To Say His Prayers Right Or Not; To Travel On A Sunday Or Not.was It Possible For Us In An Instant To See Nature As She Is-the Flowing Vestment Of An Unchanging Reality?

We Are A Race Of Women That Of Old Knew No Fear And Feared No Death, And Lived Great Lives And Hoped Great Hopes; And If Today Some Of Us Have Fallen On Evil And Degenerate Times, There Moves In Us Yet The Throb Of The Old Blood.

If Nature Here Wishes To Make A Mountain, She Runs A Range For Five Hundred Miles; If A Plain, She Levels Eighty; If A Rock, She Tilts Five Thousand Feet Of Strata On End; Our Skies Are Higher And More Intensely Blue; Our Waves Larger Than Others; Our Rivers Fiercer. There Is Nothing Measured, Small Nor Petty In South Africa.

Power! Did You Ever Hear Of Men Being Asked Whether Other Souls Should Have Power Or Not? It Is Born In Them. You May Dam Up The Fountain Of Water, And Make It A Stagnant Marsh, Or You May Let It Run Free And Do Its Work; But You Cannot Say Whether It Shall Be There; It Is There. And It Will Act, If Not Openly For Good, Then Covertly For Evil; But It Will Act.