When we look at the structure of a cell under the microscope our intellects are astonished at the wonder of it. But when we see bluebells in a wood our emotions are ravished, as when we hear the slow movement of the symphony of some great composer our hearts are pierced with that special kind of joy, somehow always tinged with sadness, that we feel when invaded by the sublime. The sublimity of nature escapes scientific instruments. The Matterhorn has one kind of beauty and a primrose another, but they cannot be as separate from each other as golf balls are from teaspoons. They are beautiful because they share beauty. There must be a beauty itself for which we yearn that, for want of better term, we call God. And indeed, the testimony of countless mystics confirms that this is the case.