His song is the funeral chant for his own death of every moment.”
And again, of himself:
“I sing the song of my heart-strings, alone in the eternal muteness, in the face of God.”
And again:
“The God-beloved man welcomes, respects as an honoured guest, his own soul and body in his solitude.
Lo! the roses under the night dress themselves in silence, and expect no mortal applaud—content with that of their voiceless God.”
And again:
“O, wash me and wash me again with thy light,
And burn my body to a flame of soul!
It is this moment that I conquer the intervention of flesh,