by Victor Hugo
from Les Misrables

Let us remark
by the way,
that to be blind
and to be loved,
is, in fact,
one of the most
strangely exquisite
forms of happiness
upon this earth,
where nothing is complete.

To have continually
at one’s side
a woman,
a daughter,
a sister,
a charming being,
who is there because you need her
and because she cannot do without you;

to know that we are indispensable
to a person who is necessary to us;
to be able to incessantly measure
one’s affection
by the amount
of her presence
which she bestows on us,
and to say to ourselves,

“Since she consecrates
the whole of her time
to me,
it is because
I possess
the whole of her heart”;
to behold her thought
in lieu of her face;

to be able to verify
the fidelity of one being
amid the eclipse of the world;

to regard the rustle of a gown
as the sound of wings;
to hear her come
and go,
retire,
speak,
return,
sing,

and to think
that one
is the centre
of these steps,
of this speech;

to manifest
at each instant
one’s personal attraction;

to feel one’s self
all the more powerful
because of one’s infirmity;
to become in one’s obscurity,
and through one’s obscurity,
the star around which
this angel gravitates,—

few felicities equal this.
The supreme happiness of life
consists in the conviction
that one is loved;

loved for one’s own sake—
let us say rather,
loved in spite of one’s self;
this conviction
the blind man possesses.
To be served in distress
is to be caressed.

Does he lack anything?
No.
One does not lose the sight
when one has love.
And what love!

A love wholly constituted of virtue!
There is no blindness
where there is certainty.

Soul seeks soul,
gropingly,
and finds it.
And this soul,
found and tested,
is a woman.

A hand sustains you;
it is hers:
a mouth lightly touches your brow;
it is her mouth:
you hear a breath very near you;
it is hers.

To have everything of her,
from her worship
to her pity,
never to be left,

to have that sweet weakness
aiding you,
to lean upon
that immovable reed,

to touch Providence
with one’s hands,
and to be able
to take it in one’s arms,—
God made tangible,—
what bliss!

The heart,
that obscure,
celestial flower,
undergoes a mysterious blossoming.

One would not exchange
that shadow for all brightness!
The angel soul is there,
uninterruptedly there;

if she departs,
it is but to return again;
she vanishes
like a dream,
and reappears
like reality.

One feels warmth approaching,
and behold!
she is there.

One overflows with serenity,
with gayety,
with ecstasy;
one is a radiance
amid the night.

And there are
a thousand little cares.
Nothings,
which are enormous
in that void.

The most ineffable accents
of the feminine voice
employed to lull you,
and supplying
the vanished universe to you.

One is caressed
with the soul.
One sees nothing,
but one feels
that one is adored.
It is a paradise of shadows.

If this offering stirred something in you—
a memory,
a question,
a flicker of light—
you are welcome to share
your reflection below.
No need for eloquence.
No need for certainty.
Just a lantern,
gently placed.