What does God say about being beautiful?

I wish I could explain the influence of the Beautiful Being.

It is unlike anything else in the Universe.

It is as elusive as a moonbeam, yet more sympathetic than a mother.

It is daintier than a rose, yet it looks upon ugly things with a smile.

It is purer than the breath of the sea, yet it seems to have no horror of impurity. 

It is artless as a child, yet wiser than the ancient gods, a marvel of paradoxes, a celestial vagabond, the darling of the unseen—

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 springtime that thrilled and moved you to listen to the rustling of wings? 

The springtime of the heart is all time, and the autumn may never come. 

Listen! When the hark sings, he sings to you.

When the waters sing, they sing to you. 

And as your heart rejoices, there is always another heart somewhere that responds, and the soul of the listening heavens grows glad with the mother joy.  

I am glad to be here―I am glad to be there. 

There is beauty wherever I go.  

Can you guess the reason, children of earth? 

Come out and play with me in the daisy fields of space. 

I will wait for you at the corner where the four winds meet. 

You will not lose your way if you follow the gleam at the end of the garden of hope.

There is music, also, beyond the roar of the earth, as it swishes through space.

There is music in keys unknown to the duller ears of the earth, and harmonies whose chords are souls attuned to each other. 

Listen—do you hear them? 

Oh, the ears are made for hearing, and the eyes are made for seeing, and the heart is made for loving!

The hours go by and leave no mark, and the years are as sylphs that dance on the air and leave no footprints, and the centuries march solemn and slow. 

But we smile, for joy is also in the solemn tread of the centuries. Joy, joy everywhere. 

It is for you, and for me, and for you, as much as for me. 

Will you meet me out where the four winds meet? 

My sister, I am often with you when you realise it not. 

For me, a poet soul is a well of water in whose deeps I can see myself reflected.

I live in a glamour of light and colour, which you mortal poets vainly try to express in magic words. 

I am in the sunset and in the stars―I watched the moon grow old and you grow young. 

In childhood, you sought for me in the swiftly moving cloud―in maturity, you fancied you had caught me in the gleam of a lover’s eye, but I am the eluder of (wo)men.

I beckon and I fly, and the touch of my feet does not press down the heads of the blossoming daisies. 

You can find me and lose me again, for mortal cannot hold me.  

I am nearest to those who seek beauty, whether in thought—or in form—I fly from those who seek to imprison me. 

You can come each day to the region where I dwell. 

Sometimes, you will meet me, sometimes not, for my will is the wind’s will and I answer no beckoning finger. 

But when I beckon, the souls come flying from the four corners of heaven. 

Your soul comes flying, too, for you are one of those I have called by the spell of my magic. 

I have use for you, and you have meaning for me―I like to see your soul in its hours of dream and ecstasy. 

Whenever one of my own dreams a dream of paradise, the light grows brighter for me to whom all things are bright. 

Oh, forget not the charm of the moment, forget not the lure of the mood, for the mood is wiser than all the magi of earth, and the treasures of the moment are richer and rarer than the hoarded wealth of the ages. 

The moment is real while the age is only a delusion, memory and shadow. 

Be sure that each moment is all, and the moment is more than time. 

Time carries an hourglass and his step is slow―his hair is white with the rime of years and his scythe is dull with unwearied mowing. 

But he never yet has caught the moment in its flight. 

He has grown old in casting nets for it. 

Ah, the magic of life and the endless combination of living things! 

I was young when the sun was formed, and I shall be young when the moon falls dead in the arms of her daughter, the earth. 

Will you not be young with me? The dust is as nothing—the soul is all. 

Like a crescent moon on the surface of a lake of water is the moment of love’s awakening. 

Like a faded flower in the lap of a tired world is the moment of love’s death. 

But there is love of the light, for its radiance is the love of souls for each other.

There is no death where the inner light shines, irradiating the fields of the within, the beyond, the unattainable attainment. 

You know where to find me. Why do you fear to question me? 

I am the great answerer of questions, though my answers are often symbols, yet words themselves are only symbols. 

I have not visited you for a season, for when I am around, you can think of nothing else, and it is well that you should think of those who have trodden the path you are treading. 

You can pattern your ways on those of others, you can hardly pattern your ways on mine. 

I am a light in the darkness―my name you do not need to know. 

A name is a limitation, and I refuse to be limited. 

In the ancient days of the angels, I refused to enter the forms of my own creation except to play with them. 

There is a hint for you if you like hints. 

He who is held by his own creations becomes a slave. 

That is one of the differences between me and (wo)men. 

What earthly father can escape his children? 

What earthly mother wishes to? 

But I! I can make a rose to bloom then leave it for another to enjoy. 

My joy was in the making. It would be dull for me to stay with a rose until its petals fell. 

The artist who can forget his past creations may create greater and greater things. 

The joy is in the doing, not in the holding fast to that which is done. 

Oh, the magic of letting go! It is the magic of the gods. 

There are races of (wo)men to whom I have revealed myself. 

They worship me. You need not worship me, for I do not require worship. 

That would be to limit myself to my own creations if I needed anything from the souls I have touched with my beauty. 

Oh, the magic of letting go! The magic of holding on? 

Yes, there is magic in holding on to a thing until it is finished and perfect, but when a thing is finished, whether it be a poem, a love―or a child, let it go. 

In that way, you are free again and may begin another. 

It is the secret of eternal youth. Never look back with regret―look back only to learn what is behind you. 

Look forward always―it is only when a man ceases to look forward to things that he begins to grow old. 

He settles down. I have said to live in the moment―that is the same thing seen from another side. 

The present and the future are playfellows―we do not play when we study the past. I am the great playfellow of men. 

When you see me in the green trees and in the green light under trees, know that you are near to me. 

When you hear my voice in the silence, know that I speak for you. 

The immortal loves to speak to the immortal in the mortal and there is joy in calling to the joy, which dozes in the heart of a soul of earth. 

When joy is awake, the soul is awake. 

You look for God in the forms of men and women and sometimes you find him there, but you look for me in your own soul―the deeper the gaze, the fairer the vision.

Yes, I am in Nature, and I am in you when you look for me there, for Nature is dual, and the half you carry within you. 

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 (wo)men! 

I am lighter than the thistledown 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 seed of all things. 

The seasons come, and the seasons go, but the springtime is eternal. 

I can find that in you that which was lost in the April of the world. 

―The Beautiful Being