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