-Filled and weighted by your happiness, waiting from superabundance, and yet ashamed of your waiting.
O my soul, there is nowhere a soul which could be more loving and more comprehensive and more extensive! Where could future and past be closer together than with you?
O my soul, I have given you everything, and all my hands have become empty by you:- and now! Now say you to me, smiling and full of melancholy: "Which of us owes thanks?-
-Do the giver not owe thanks because the receiver received? Is giving not a necessity? Is receiving not- pitying?"
O my soul, I understand the smiling of your melancholy: your over-abundance itself now stretches out longing hands!
Your fulness looks forth over raging seas, and seeks and waits: the longing of over-fulness looks forth from the smiling heaven of your eyes!
And verily, O my soul! Who could see your smiling and not melt into tears? The angels themselves melt into tears through the over-graciousness of your smiling.
Your graciousness and over-graciousness, is it which will not complain and weep: and yet, O my soul, longs your smiling for tears, and your trembling mouth for sobs.
"Is not all weeping complaining? And all complaining, accusing?" Thus speak you to yourself; and therefore, O my soul, will you rather smile than pour forth your grief-
-Than in gushing tears pour forth all your grief concerning your fulness, and concerning the craving of the vine for the vintager and vintage-knife!
But will you not weep, will you not weep forth your purple melancholy, then will you have to sing, O my soul!- Behold, I smile myself, who foretell you this:
