eat of the endless bounties of inner significances, and drink of the
delicate wines of the spirit.

The tongue faileth in describing these three Valleys, and speech falleth
short. The pen steppeth not into this region, the ink leaveth only a blot.
In these planes, the nightingale of the heart hath other songs and
secrets, which make the heart to stir and the soul to clamor, but this
mystery of inner meaning may be whispered only from heart to heart,
confided only from breast to breast.

Only heart to heart can speak the bliss of mystic knowers;
No messenger can tell it and no missive bear it.(54)

I am silent from weakness on many a matter,
For my words could not reckon them and my speech would fall short.(55)

O friend, till thou enter the garden of such mysteries, thou shalt never
set lip to the undying wine of this Valley. And shouldst thou taste of it,
thou wilt shield thine eyes from all things else, and drink of the wine of
contentment; and thou wilt loose thyself from all things else, and bind
thyself to Him, and throw thy life down in His path, and cast thy soul
away. However, there is no other in this region that thou need forget:
“There was God and there was naught beside Him.”(56) For on this plane the
traveler witnesseth the beauty of the Friend in everything. Even in fire,
he seeth the face of the Beloved. He beholdeth in illusion the secret of
reality, and readeth from the attributes the riddle of the Essence. For he
hath burnt away the veils with his sighing, and unwrapped the shroudings
with a single glance; with piercing sight he gazeth on the new creation;
with lucid heart he graspeth subtle verities. This is sufficiently
attested by: “And we have made thy sight sharp in this day.”(57)