The gift of yourself no longer satisfies you; you
are prodigal of yourself: the rapture that bears
you on to ever greater love springs up in you
ceaselessly and untiringly, and carries you ever
higher towards the wide heaven of perfect love.
A clasp of the hands, a gentle look impassions
you; and your heart appears to me so suddenly
lovely that I am afraid sometimes of your eyes
and your lips, and that I am unworthy and that
you love me too much.
Ah! these bright ardours of an affection too
lofty for a poor human being who has only a poor
heart, all moist with regrets, all thorny with
faults, to feel their passing and dissolve in
tears.