I had left the avenue of cypresses and stood in a wide plain, encircled by a forest of blossoming trees. The odours of spring were on the air, and birds sang. In the centre of the plain a great circular fountain played with the waters, tossing them in the air, whence they descended in feathery spray. An atmosphere of inexpressible charm was over everything. Here and there in this circular flower-scented heaven walked angelic beings, many or most of whom must some time have been human. Two by two they walked, or in groups, smiling to themselves or at one another. On earth you often use the word “peace”; but compared with the peace of that place the greatest peace of earth is only turmoil. I realised that I was in one of the fairest heavens, but that I was alone there. No sooner had this thought of solitude found lodgment in my heart than I saw standing before me the Beautiful Being about whom I wrote you a little time ago. It smiled, and said to me: “He who is sadly conscious of his solitude is no longer in heaven. So I have come to hold you here yet a little while.” “Is this the particular heaven where you dwell?” I asked. “Oh, I dwell nowhere and everywhere,” the Beautiful Being answered. “I am one of the voluntary wanderers, who find the charm of home in every heavenly or earthly place.” “So you sometimes visit earth?” “Yes, even the remotest hells I go to, but I never stay there long. My purpose is to know all things, and yet to remain unattached.” “And do you love the earth?” “The earth is one of my playgrounds. I sing to the children of earth sometimes; and when I sing to the poets, they believe that their muse is with them. Here is a song which I sang one night to a soul which dwells among men: “My sister, I am often with you when you realise it not. For me a poet soul is a well of water in whose deeps I can see myself reflected. I live in a glamour of light and colour, which you mortal poets vainly try to express in magic words. I am in the sunset and in the star; I watched the moon grow old and you grow young. In childhood you sought for me in the swiftly moving cloud; in maturity you fancied you had caught me in the gleam of a lover’s eye; but I am the eluder of men. I beckon and I fly, and the touch of my feet does not press down the heads of the blossoming daisies. You can find me and lose me again, for mortal cannot hold me. I am nearest to those who seek beauty--whether in thought or in form; I fly from those who seek to imprison me. You can come each day to the region where I dwell. Sometimes you will meet me, sometimes not; for my will is the wind’s will, and I answer no beckoning finger: But when I beckon, the souls come flying from the four corners of heaven. Your soul comes flying, too; for you are one of those I have called by the spell of my magic.