an idea, as a
poem, it is still the idea, the poetry of something finite, limited,
concrete; while the love of God and the conception of God embrace
everything. But, notwithstanding all my efforts, I am unable to give
form in my mind to this supreme conception--this object of the highest
love--in order that it may combat the image, the memory of the frail and
ephemeral reality that continually besets me. Fervently do I implore
Heaven to awaken within me the power of the imagination, that it may
create a likeness, a symbol of this conception, that shall be
all-embracing, and absorb and efface the image of Pepita. This highest
conception, on which I desire to center my love, is vague, shadowy,
indescribable, like the blackness of darkness; while Pepita's image
presents itself to me in clearly defined outlines, bright, palpable,
luminous with the subdued light that may be borne by the eyes of the
spirit, not bright with the intense light that for the eyes of the
spirit is as darkness.

Every other consideration, every other object is of no avail to destroy
her image. Between the crucifix and me it places itself; between the
most sacred image of the Virgin and me it places itself; on the page of
the spiritual book I am reading it also comes to place itself.

Yet I do not believe that my soul is invaded by what in the world is
called love. And even if this were the case, I should do battle against
this love, and conquer in the end.

The daily sight of Pepita, the hearing her praises sounded continually,
even by the reverend vicar, preoccupy me; they turn my spirit toward
profane things, and withdraw it from its proper meditations. But, no--I
do not yet love Pepita; I will go away from here and forget her.

While I remain here, I shall do battle with valor. I shall wrestle with
the Lord in order to prevail with him by love and submission. My cries
shall reach him like burning arrows, and shall cast down the buckler
wherewith he defends himself from the eyes of my soul. I shall fight
like Israel in the silence of the night; and the Lord shall wound me in
the thigh, and shall humble me in the conflict in order that, being
vanquished, I may become the victor.

_May 12th._

Before I had any intention of doing so, my dear uncle, my father
persuaded me to ride Lucero. Yesterday, at six in the morning, I mounted
the beautiful wild creature, as my father calls Lucero, and we set out
for the country.

I rode so well, I kept