Describe for me thus in simple words how love besets your soul.  Tarry not with yesterday, nor hope for tomorrow, but sing to me of this moment in your heart, and tell me what you will—what you can—of love.  Or can such a thing even pass the lips with clarity?

In the depths of my soul there are songs unwilling to take the garb of words, songs living as seed in my heart. They will not flow with ink onto paper. Like a translucent veil, they are wrapped about emotions that can never flow sweetly on my tongue.

Yet how can I even whisper them when I fear what the particles of the æther may do to them? To whom shall I sing them when they have become accustomed to live in the house of my soul and fear the harshness of other ears?

Were you to look into my eye, you would see the image of their image. Were you to touch my fingertips, you would feel their quick movements.

The works of my hands reveal them as the lake reflects the twinkling of the stars. My tears disclose them as the mystery of the rose petal is disclosed at the moment the heat dissolves the drops of dew.

Songs spread out by silence and rolled up by noise, echoed in dreams and concealed by wakefulness.

They are songs of love, O people! What troubadour will sing them? What David shall chant these psalms?

More fragrant are they than the breaths of the jasmine flower. From what throat shall they go forth? More chaste are they than virgins. What violin will reveal them?

Who can combine the roaring of the sea and the warbling of the nightingale? Who can link the crashing thunder with the baby’s sigh? What flesh can sing the songs of the gods?