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The thing that moves us, or ought to move us, in flowers, trees, seas and mountains, is this: that lacking this fretting, gnawing sense of I-am-ness, their emanations are pure Tao, and may reach us along the channel we call beauty: may flood our being through "the gateway of the eyes." Beauty is Tao made visible.
The Infinite, occupying this position, has formed therein all sorts of attachments and dislikes; and each one of them hinders it adaptability. Your surroundings have reflected themselves on you: and the sum of the reflexions is your personality, the little cage of I-am-ness from which it is so hard to escape.
Think of all the little jewels you know in Keats, in Shelley, or Wordsworth: the moments when the mists between those men and the divine "defecated to a thin transparency"; those were precisely the moments when the poets lost sight of their I-am-ness and entered into true relations with the Universe.
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