The Grass is Black/The Air is Pink

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Love Letter (continued)

you not, happiness? Walks together in the solitudes! days blessed and radiant! I have sometimes dreamed that from time to time hours detached themselves from the life of the angels and came here below to pass through the destiny of men.

God can add nothing to the happiness of those who love one another, but to give them unending duration. After life of love, an eternity of love is an augmentation indeed; but to increase in its ineffable felicity which love gives to the soul in this world, is impossible, even with God. God is the plenitude of heaven; love is the plenitude of man.

You look at a star from two motives, because it is luminous and because it is impenetrable. You have at your side a softer radiance and a greater mystery, woman.

We all, whoever we may be, have our respirable beings. If they fail us, the air fails us, we stifle, then we die. To die for lack of love is horrible. The asphyxia of the soul.

When love has melted and mingled two beings an angelic and sacred unity, the secret of life is found for them; they are then but the two terms of a single destiny; they are then but two wings of a single spirit. Love, soar!

The day that a woman who is passing before you shed a light upon you as she goes, you are lost, you love. You have then but one thing to do so; to think of her so earnestly that she will be compelled to think of you.

What love begins can be finished only by God. True love is in despair and in raptures over a a glove lost or a handerkerchief found, and it requires eternity for its devotion and its hopes. It is composed as the same time of the infinitely great and the infinitely small.

If you are stone, be loadstone, if you are plant, be sensitive, if you are man, be love.

Nothing suffices love. We love happiness, we wish for paradise; we wish for Heaven. O ye who love eachother, all this is in love. Be wise enough to find it. Love has, as much as Heaven, contemplation, and more than Heaven, passionate delight.

“Does she still come to the Luxembourg?” “No, monsieur.” “She hears mass in this church, does she not?” “She comes here no more.” “Does she still live in this house?” “She has moved away!” “Whither has she gone to live?” “She did not say!”

What a gloomy thing, not to know the address of one’s soul!

Love has its childlikeness, the other passions have their littlenesses. Shame on the passions which render man little! Honour to that which makes him a child!

There is a strange thing, do you know it? I am in the night. There is a being who has gone away and carried the heavens with her.

Oh! to be laid side by side in the same tomb, hand clasped in hand, and from time to time, in the darkness, to caress a finger gently, that would suffice for my eternity.

You who suffer because you love, love still more. To die of love, is to live by it.

Love. A sombre starry transfiguration is mingled with this crucifixion. There is ecstasy in the agony.

O joy of birds! it is because they have their nest that they have their song.

Love is a celestial respiration of the air of paradise.

Deep hearts, wise minds take life as God made it; it is a long trial, an unintelligible preparation for the unknown destiny. This destiny, the true one, begins for man at the first step in the interior of the tomb. Then something appears to him, and he begins to discern the definite. The definite, think of this word. The living see the infinite, the definite reveals itself only to the dead. Meantime, love and suffer, hope and contemplate. Woe, alas! to him who shall have loved bodies, forms, appearances only. Death will take all from him. Try to love souls, you shall find them again.

I met in the street a very young man who was in love. His hat was old, his coat was threadbare-there were holes at his elbows, the water passed through his shoes and the stars through his soul.

What a grand thing, to be loved! What a grander thing still, to love! The heart becomes heroic through passion. It is no longer composed of anything but what is pure; it no longer rests upon anything but what is elevated and great. An unworthy thought can no more spring up in it than a nettle upon a glacier. The soul lofty and serene, unaccessible to common passions and common emotions, rising above the clouds and shadows of this world, its follies, its falsehoods, its hates, its vanities, its miseries, inhabits the blue of the skies, and only feels more the deep and subterranean commotions of destiny, as the summit of the mountains feels the quaking of the earth.

Were there not someone who loved, the sun would be extinguished.”

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