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The wise say truth is the most common thing available. It is all around us. Yet truth is called a rare thing, since we see it and do not receive it. It is so mixed with worldly noise that we cannot separate and contain it exclusively. It comes and goes with the changing din of daily chore. It is only when the faculties of the heart and the mind and their powers-intuitions, thoughts, emotions and visions-get strung properly, like the players and the musical instruments in an orchestra, that the Divine, sometimes, plays the note that revives the lost memory in the soul of its existence in God, before creation. Then its sleeping ability to separate the milk of truth from the water of worldly noise awakens. The worldly noise is with us much more now than it was with Wordsworth when he had lamented: "the world is too much with us.

We pine for miracles. Isn't it a miracle that in certain hearts the milk of truth does not spill in the water of worldly noise? Perhaps political theories and social formulas cannot do what this little miracle can. It is as much a miracle as would be the staying of the scent of a rose in the surrounding air long after it had withered.