O my soul, every sun shed I upon thee, and every night and every silence and every longing:⁠—then grewest thou up for me as a vine.

O my soul, exuberant and heavy dost thou now stand forth, a vine with swelling udders and full clusters of brown golden grapes:⁠—

—Filled and weighted by thy happiness, waiting from superabundance, and yet ashamed of thy waiting.

O my soul, there is nowhere a soul which could be more loving and more comprehensive and more extensive! Where could future and past be closer together than with thee?

O my soul, I have given thee everything, and all my hands have become empty by thee:⁠—and now! Now sayest thou to me, smiling and full of melancholy: “Which of us oweth thanks?⁠—

“⁠—Doth the giver not owe thanks because the receiver received? Is bestowing not a necessity? Is receiving not⁠—pitying?”⁠—