The progress of our soul is like a perfect poem. It has an infinite idea which, once realised, makes all movements full of meaning and joy.

If I call not thee in my prayers, if I keep not thee in my heart, thy love for me still waits for my love.

While God waits for His temple to be built of love, men bring stones.

Asks the Possible of the Impossible, "Where is your dwelling-place?" "In the dreams of the Impotent," comes the answer.

Oh my only friend, my best beloved, the gates are open in my house—do not pass by like a dream.

Alas, why are my nights all thus lost? Ah, why do I ever miss his sight whose breath touches my sleep?

What you are you do not see, what you see is your shadow.