ABSTRACT
It is you, dear light of my soul, it is you who call me back to life. Would I preserve it, if I was not sure that death, by the same stroke, would cut short your days with mine? The moment was arrived that the divine flame, with which the Sun animates our being, seemed going to expire. Laborious Nature was just preparing to give another form to that portion of matter which belonged to her in me. I was dying; you was losing for ever half of yourself, when my love restored my life, which I now dedicate to you. But how can I inform you of the many wonders that have happened to me? How shall I recollect ideas that were all confusion, even when I received them, and which the time that is since past, renders still less intelligible.
