Reflection of an Old Soul

Thou wilt interpret life to me, and men

Art, nature, yea, my own soul’s mysteries –

Bringing truth out, clear-joyous, to my ken

Fair as the morn trampling the dull night. Then

The lone hillside shall hear exultant cries;

The joyous see me joy, the weeping weep;

The watching smile, as Death breathes on me his cold sleep

(by George MacDonald, from Diary of an Old Soul)