Difficult questions lie clearly revealed before the mind like landscapes from which the fogs are lifted.

Once the mind crawled tortoise-like through its work.

Now it soars like an eagle.

The soul seems a sweet-spiced shrub, and every leaf is perfumed.

If in dull, obscure hours the soul was like a wooden beehive drifted o'er with snow, in its vision-hours the soul is like a glass hive out of which the bees go singing into sweet clover-fields.
In these hours how unworthy the material life! How insubstantial the things of iron, wood and stone! Bodily things seem evanescent, as frost pictures on the window on a winter's morn.