To the mystic it is not only the waxing and the waning of the moon, it has some other significance for him; it is not only the rising and the setting of the sun, it tells him something else; it is not only the positions of the stars, but their action and their influence relate something to the heart of the mystic. The mountains standing so silently, the patient trees of long tradition, the barren desert, the thick forest, not only have a calming effect upon the mystic, but they express something to him. The fluttering of the leaves comes to his ears as a whisper, the murmur of the wind falls on his ears as music, and the sound of little streams of water running in the forest, making their way through rocks and pebbles, is a symphony to the ears of the mystic. No music can be greater and higher and better than this. The crashing of the thunder, the soughing of the wind, the blowing of the morning breeze, all these convey to a mystic a certain meaning which is hidden behind them; and for a mystic they make a picture of life, not a dead picture but a living picture, which at every moment continually reveals a new secret, a new mystery to his heart.