Is it sin, which makes the worm a chrysalis, and the chrysalis a butterfly, and the butterfly dust?

A careless pilgrim only scatters the dust of his passions more widely.

He who has tasted the sweetness of solitude and tranquillity, is free from fear and free from sin, while he tastes the sweetness of drinking in the law.

Every life has its years in which one progresses as on a tedious and dusty street of poplars, without caring to know where he is.

That is the returning to God which in reality is never concluded on earth but yet leaves behind in the soul a divine home sickness, which never again ceases.

Thus one memory follows another until the waves dash together over our heads, and a deep sigh swells the breast, which warns us that we have forgotten to breathe in the midst of these pure thoughts.