There are hours and seasons when certain of these accords are most to the fore, when one hears best the thousand voices of things.  Two or three times in my life I have been present at the awakening of this mysterious world.  At the end of August toward midnight, when the day has been hot, an indistinct murmur rises about the kneeling villages.  It is neither the sound of rivers, nor of springs, nor of the wind, nor of animals cropping the grass, nor of cattle rubbing their chains against the cribs, nor of uneasy watchdogs, nor of birds, nor of the falling of the looms of the weavers.  The chords are as sweet to the ear, as the glow of dawn is sweet to the eye.  There is stirring a boundless and peaceful world in which the blades of grass lean toward one another till morning, and the dew rustles imperceptibly, and the seeds at each moment’s beat raise the whole surface of the plain.  It is the soul alone which can apprehend these other souls, this flower-dust joy of the corollas, these calls, and these silences that create the divine Unknown.  It is as if one were suddenly transported to a strange country where one is enchanted by langorous words, even though one does not understand very clearly their meaning.

Nevertheless I penetrate more deeply into the meaning whispered by these things than into that hidden in an idiom with which I am unfamiliar.  I feel that I understand and that it would not require a very great effort to translate the thought of these obscure souls, and to note in a concrete fashion some of their manifestations.  Perhaps poetry sometimes actually does this.  It has happened that mentally I have answered this indistinct murmur, just as I have succeeded by my silence in answering distinctly a sweetheart’s questions.

But this language of things is not wholly auditory.  It is made up of other symbols also, which are faintly traced on our souls.  The impression is still too faint, but, perhaps, it will be stronger when we are better prepared to receive God.

It is objects which have been my consolation in the grievous events of my life.  At such moments some thing will catch my eye particularly.  I who know not how to make my soul bow before men have prostrated it before things.  A radiance emanates from them which may be outside the memories that I attach to them, and it is like a thrill of love.  I have felt them.  I feel them now living around me.  They are part of my obscure realm.  I feel a responsibility toward them like that of an elder brother.  At this instant while I am writing I feel the souls of these divine sisters leaning upon me with love and trust.  This chair, this chest of drawers, this pen exist as I do.  They touch me, and I feel prostrated before them.  I have their faith ...  I have their faith, which is beyond all systems, beyond all explanations, beyond all intelligence.  They give me a conviction such as no genius could give me.  Every system is vain, every explanation erroneous, the moment I feel living in my heart the knowledge of these souls.