Wherever the soul
of man turns, unless it turns to you it clasps sorrow to its heart. Even if it
clings to what is lovely, if this loveliness is outside God, it has clung to
sorrow, for these beautiful things would not exist without you. Like the sun,
they rise and set: they have their beginning and then they grow old and die.
Let me praise you
for these things, my God, who made them all, but do not let the love of them be
like glue to fix them to my soul.
