I imagine my soul to be as a plot of waste ground and beg the Blessed Virgin to remove from it all the rubbish—meaning its imperfections; then I beseech her to erect thereon, a vast canopy worthy of Heaven and to decorate it with her own treasures, and I invite all the Angels and Saints to come and sing canticles of love. It seems to me then that Jesus is pleased to see Himself so magnificently received; and I, I share His joy. All this does not hinder distractions and sleep from molesting me; therefore it not rarely happens that I resolve to continue my thanksgiving all the day long, since I have made it so badly in the Choir.
HIST. D'UNE AME, CH. VIII
At the time of Holy Communion I
sometimes picture my soul under the
figure of a little child of three or four
years, who at play has got its hair tossed
and its clothes soiled.—These misfortunes
have befallen me in battling with
souls.—But very soon the Blessed Vir-
