Little Poems in Prose

mire yourself, to speak as the mystics do, in your own correspondence? Dreams, always dreams! and the more am- bitious and delicate is the soul, the more its dreams bear it away from possibility. Each man carries in himself his dose of natural opium, incessantly secreted and renewed. From birth to death, how many hours can we count that are filled by positive enjoyment, by successful and decisive action? Shall we ever live, shall we ever pass into this picture which my soul has painted, this picture which resem- bles you? These treasures, this furniture, this luxury, this order, these perfumes, these miraculous flowers, they are you. Still you, these mighty rivers and these calm canals! These enormous ships that ride upon them, freighted with wealth, whence rise the monotonous songs of their handling; these are my thoughts that sleep or that roll upon your breast. You lead them softly towards that sea which is the Infi- nite; ever reflecting the depths of heaven in the limpidity of your fair soul; and when, tired by the ocean’s swell and gorged with the treasures of the East, they return to their port of departure, these are still my thoughts en- riched which return from the Infinite—towards you.