It was a bare open plain that stretched before me, the wind seemed to have swept even the last dead leaf of Autumn from its cold expanse.
To the right stood a bold piece of grey jagged rock, which almost looked as if it had been suddenly hurled there by a giant hand, so solitary and isolated it was. The sky was dull, colorless, blank, for the clouds had wept their utmost, and now assumed the hopeless calm that sometimes follows a storm of grief.
I stood alone, I gazed into a vast silence, until the grayness and the barren waste was a part of myself; I was the spirit of my grey dream.
Looking from north to south, from east to west, I could discern no companion, no sign of life, no creature; and no touch of nature's beauty in flower or shrub, or waving grass, met my gaze.
At length, worn out with wandering to and fro, I turned wearily, and set my face to the east, saying, "There at least lies the King of Day, he may shine forth and show me the path that leads from this wilderness?
I resolutely lifted my eyes from the sullen waste, and looked upwards, I hastened my weary steps and trod firmly, and gradually I felt a growing hope within, for before me I saw a golden streak of light, faint but clear, as if a sunbeam had lost its way, and was playing at hide-and-seek among the cloudlets.
Resolutely I kept my eyes fixed on the Light. It grew brighter, the track widened, till all at once a path of dazzling brightness lay before me.
I forgot the somber rock, the arid waste, the sullen wilderness, they faded into nothingness. joyfully I hastened forward, forgetting those things which were behind, longing to attain to that beautiful beyond. I was conscious that I had left the plain, although I scarcely knew that I had scaled the heights. Around me the flowers blossomed, the trees bent and kissed the silvery rippling stream, running shyly 'neath their shadowy branches. Little children slipped their soft palms in mine, gentle voices filled my ear with music, friends thronged around me, claiming my love and sympathy, the air was full of the joyous song of birds and gentle murmur of the insect world, for Love, which is the Light, had bathed my darkened understanding with its effulgence, and now I knew that the grayness was from within not without, for life depends on our point of view; we can make it beautiful or we can make it weary. The weariness is born of selfishness, the beauty is born of Love, and Love it is which takes the discord of life and softens it until it becomes a part of the Eternal Harmony.
More Articles by This Author James Allen
James Allen was a little-known philosophical writer and poet. He is best recognized for his book, As a Man Thinketh. Allen wrote about complex subjects such as faith, destiny, love, patience, and religion but had the unique ability of explaining these subjects clearly and in a way that is easy to understand. He often wrote about cause and effect, sowing and reaping, as well as overcoming sadness, sorrow, and grief. For more information on the life of James Allen, click here.