Chapter XXVII

Ardour of senses, ardour of hearts, ardour of
souls, vain words created by those who diminish
love; sun, you do not distinguish among your
flames those of evening, of dawn, or of noon!

You walk blinded by your own light in the torrid
azure under the great arched skies, knowing
nothing, unless it be that your strength is
all-powerful and that your fire labours at the
divine mysteries.

For love is an act of ceaseless exaltation. O you
whose gentleness bathes my proud heart, what need
to weigh the pure gold of our dream? I love you
altogether, with my whole being.