Chapter 12 No.12

If towards the shining light the butterfly,

Winging his way knows not the burning flame,

And if the thirsty stag, unmindful of the dart,

Runs fainting to the brook,

Or unicorn, unto the chaste breast running,

Ignores the snare that is for him prepared,

I, in the light, the fount, the bosom of my love

Behold the flames, the arro