The night was beautiful; the moon was setting and the stars shone brightly in a field of deep azure.  Not a breath of wind stirred the trees; the air was warm and freighted with the perfume of spring.

She was leaning on her elbow, her eyes in the heavens; I leaned over her and watched her as she dreamed.  Then I raised my own eyes; a voluptuous melancholy seized us both.  We breathed together the warm perfume wafted to us from the garden; we followed, in its lingering course, the pale light of the moon which glinted through the chestnut-trees.  I thought of a certain day when I had looked up at the broad expanse of heaven with despair; I trembled at the recollection of that hour; life was so rich now!  I felt a hymn of praise welling up in my heart.  Around the form of my dear mistress I slipped my arm; she gently turned her head; her eyes were bathed in tears.  Her body yielded as does the rose, her open lips fell on mine, and the universe was forgotten.

Eternal angel of happy nights, who shall interpret thy silence?  Mysterious vintage that flows from lips that meet as from a stainless chalice!  Intoxication of the senses!  O, supremest joy!  Yes, like God, thou art immortal!  Sublime exaltation of the creature, universal communion of beings, thrice sacred pleasure, what have they sung who have celebrated thy praise?  They have called thee transitory, O thou who dost create!  And they have said that thy passing beams have illumined their fugitive life.  Words that are as feeble as the dying breath!  Words of a sensual brute who is astonished that he should live for an hour, and who mistakes the rays of the eternal lamp for the spark which is struck from the flint!

O love! thou principle of life!  Precious flame over which all nature, like a careful vestal, incessantly watches in the temple of God!  Centre of all, by whom all exists, the spirit of destruction would itself die, blowing at thy flame!  I am not astonished that thy name should be blasphemed, for they do not know who thou art, they who think they have seen thy face because they have opened their eyes; and when thou findest thy true prophets, united on earth with a kiss, thou closest their eyes lest they look upon the face of perfect joy.

But you, O rapturous delights, languishing smiles, and first caressing, stammering utterance of love, you who can be seen, who are you?  Are you less in God’s sight than all the rest, beautiful cherubim who soar in the alcove and who bring to this world man awakened from the dream divine!  Ah! dear children of pleasure, how your mother loves you!  It is you, curious prattlers, who behold the first mysteries, touches, trembling yet chaste, glances that are already insatiable, who begin to trace on the heart, as a tentative sketch, the ineffaceable image of cherished beauty!  O royalty!  O conquest!  It is you who make lovers.  And thou, true diadem, serenity of happiness!  The first true concept of man’s life, and first return of happiness in the many little things of life which are seen only through the medium of joy, first steps made by nature in the direction of the well-beloved!  Who will paint you?  What human word will ever express thy slightest caress?