I Can Do Nothing But Think Of

In Praise Of Thy Goodness I Must Confess That Thou Didst Try With All Thy Means To Draw Me To Thee. Sometimes It Pleased Thee To Let Me Feel The Heavy Hand Of Thy Displeasure And To Humiliate My Proud Heart By Manifold Castigations. Sickness And Misfortune Didst Thou Send Upon Me To Turn My Thoughts To My Errantries.-one Thing, Only, O Father, Do I Ask: Cease Not To Labor For My Betterment. In Whatsoever Manner It Be, Let Me Turn To Thee And Become Fruitful In Good Works.

I Can Do Nothing But Think Of You... What Have You Done To Me? Can't You Remove The Spell You Have Cast Over Me?

Recommend To Your Children To Be Virtuous, Only The Virtue Can Bring Us Happiness, Not The Money.

Yet It Was Impossible For Me To Say To People, 'speak Louder, Shout, For I Am Deaf.' Ah, How Could I Possibly Admit An Infirmity In The One Sense Which Ought To Be More Perfect In Me Than Others, A Sense Which I Once Possessed In The Highest Perfection, A Perfection Such As Few In My Profession Enjoy Or Ever Have Enjoyed.

How Glad I Am To Be Able To Roam In The Wood And Thicket, Among Trees And Flowers And Rocks ... In The Country, Every Tree Seems To Speak To Me, Saying, "holy! Holy", In The Woods, There Is Enchantment Which Expresses All Things.