He Loves But Little Who Can Say

I Found Myself Within A Forest Dark, For The Straightfoward Pathway Had Been Lost. Ah Me! How Hard A Thing Is To Say, What Was This Forest Savage, Rough, And Stern, Which In The Very Thought Renews The Fear. So Bitter Is It, Death Is Little More.

As, Pricked Out With Less And Greater Lights, Between The Poles Of The Universe, The Milky Way So Gleameth White As To Set Very Sages Questioning.

In The Middle Of The Journey Of Our Life I Came To Myself Within A Dark Wood Where The Straight Way Was Lost.

It May Be That A More Subtle Person Would Find For This Thing A Reason Of Greater Subtlety: But Such Is The Reason That I Find, And That Liketh Me Best.

The More Perfect A Thing Is, The More Susceptible To Good And Bad Treatment It Is.