divine love is charity, and
that to love God is to love all things, for all things are in God, in a
supreme and ineffable manner. I know that I commit no sin in loving
material things for the love of God, which is to love them for
themselves, righteously; for what are material things but the
manifestation, the creation of the love of God? And, notwithstanding, I
know not what undefinable fear, what unwonted scruple, what vague and
scarcely perceptible remorse torments me now, when, as formerly, as in
other days of my youth, as in childhood itself, I feel an effusion of
tenderness, a sort of ecstasy of enthusiasm, on penetrating into some
leafy grove, on hearing the song of the nightingale, or the twittering
of the swallows, or the tender cooing of the dove; on looking at the
flowers, on beholding the stars. I imagine, at times, that there is in
all this something of sensual pleasure, a something that makes me
forget, for the moment at least, more lofty aspirations. I do not desire
that in me the spirit should sin against the flesh; but neither do I
desire, on the other hand, that the beauty of the material world--that
its delights, even those most delicate, subtle, and ethereal ones that
are perceived rather by the spirit than by the senses, such as the soft
sigh of the zephyr, laden with rural scents, the song of the birds, the
peaceful and majestic silence of the night in these gardens and
orchards--should distract me from the contemplation of higher beauty, or
weaken, even for a moment, my love toward Him who has created this
harmonious fabric of the world.

I know that all these material things are like the letters of a book,
the signs and characters in which the soul, eager for knowledge, may
find a hidden meaning, and decipher and discover the beauty of God that,
though but dimly, is shadowed forth in them, and of which they are the
pictures or rather emblems, because they do not represent, but only
symbolize it. On this distinction I dwell at times to strengthen my
scruples and mortify the flesh. For, I consider, if I love the beauty of
earthly things as they are, it is idolatry; I ought to love this beauty
as a sign, as the symbol of a beauty occult and divine, and infinitely
superior to it in all things.

A few days ago I completed my twenty-second year. Heretofore, my
religious fervor has been such that I have felt no other love than the
immaculate love of God himself and of his holy religion, which I desire