O my soul, I understand the smiling of thy melancholy: thine overabundance itself now stretcheth out longing hands!

Thy fullness looketh forth over raging seas, and seeketh and waiteth: the longing of overfullness looketh forth from the smiling heaven of thine eyes!

And verily, O my soul! Who could see thy smiling and not melt into tears? The angels themselves melt into tears through the over-graciousness of thy smiling.

Thy graciousness and over-graciousness, is it which will not complain and weep: and yet, O my soul, longeth thy smiling for tears, and thy trembling mouth for sobs.

“Is not all weeping complaining? And all complaining, accusing?” Thus speakest thou to thyself; and therefore, O my soul, wilt thou rather smile than pour forth thy grief⁠—

—Than in gushing tears pour forth all thy grief concerning thy fullness, and concerning the craving of the vine for the vintager and vintage-knife!