Not darkness but twilight In which even the best of minds must make its way now. And slowly the questions occur, vague but formidable for all that. We pass our hands over their surface like blind men feeling for the mechanism that will swing them aside. They yield, but only to reform as new problems; and one does not even do that but towers immovable before us
Is there no way of other thought of answering its challenge? There is an anticipation of it to the point of dying. There have been times when, after long on my knees in a cold chancel, a stone has rolled from my mind, and I have looked in and seen the old questions lie folded and in a place by themselves, like the piled graveclothes of love’s risen body.