St. John of the Cross, translated by Rhina P. Espaillat

Not in myself do I live but in such great hope, that I die of longing to die. I no longer live in me; lacking God, from life I’m driven; lacking God or self to live in, what, then, can this living be? True life must come, by and by. A thousand deaths is the fee, since life must come, by and . . . . Continue Reading »

One darkest night I went, aflame with love’s devouring eager burning— O fortunate event!— no witnesses discerning, the house now still from which my steps were turning. Hidden by darkness, bent on flight, disguised, down secret steps sojourning— O fortunate event! Hidden by . . . . Continue Reading »