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Poem	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.
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