How is it I have sought this shy phantom, perfection, and here, where I have stolen but a partial glimpse of his face, the phantom, I discover, is me. I, the brief and airy thing, the ghost haunting the night. Perfection wakes; I am but a dream.
I seek sainthood. The shadow of death frightens me, but how can light came into the darkness without that darkness fading away?
Am I then Lucifer? I bless the dawn. Am I a satan? Let me cry against my own sins: God’s mercy may drown my words. Am I a devil? then let the real, let the truth, undo me.
God be praised. If I am to be nothing, let God be praised.
Tale Told 