It is the splintering, maybe, that is hardest to understand;
when one comes to us, in the guise of some
ordinary, off-hand goddess, we do not at once realize
who came or what they intended --
listen, then: suppose she came carrying in her hands
everything you ever wanted, and she said: the price is,
you will have to carry it forever. I think
even the most cavalier would pause. And then
with a lurch of thunder and a whiff of lightning
the goddess would leave in disgust, and you saying,
"wait, that God?" -- I am sorry to be flip,
but these things are unendurable if serious,
and I still hope to sleep tonight.
Listen: the full sweet song of
the crickets. If you woke, here, now,
the enormity of trust might daunt us:
as if I stepped forward, meaning to hand you
some sweet morsel from the pot, and
I stumbled and the whole tureen of my heart
dumped scalding in your lap. Stay sleeping, dear:
we are already learning more than we dare know.
"But He comes in some other song, I hope?" said Mrs. Moore gently.
"Oh no, he refuses to come," repeated Godbole, perhaps not understanding her question. "I say to Him, Come, come, come, come, come, come. He neglects to come."
-- E.M. Forster, A Passage to India