I saw a picture once. It was not made on canvas, bounded by edges, but seemed fashioned from some lasting substance, making almost a reality that stretched away into space.
The scene was of a darkened plain, on which a shadow rested. It was not the dusk that follows day, but seemed a shadow of all time. From me in darker line, across the already darkened plain, extended a row of crouching figures. The heavy robe of each covered the lowered head. Motionless, they sat in silence as if their time had passed.
As I gazed wondering at the meaning, this was born in upon my consciousness: "Each is thyself in the successive moments of thy life."
When the picture had passed I knew I had seen a vision of selfishness. And thereupon, I tried to form its opposite — a picture radiant with light, whose name should be "Love of Brother," but I could not.
I marveled, and to my questioning mind this answer came: "The picture is not, nor will it be until you have wrought for others as you have wrought for self."