A Poem by St. John of the Cross

He who is sick with love

Whom God Himself has touched,

Finds his tastes so changed

That they fall away

Like a fevered man's

Who loathes any food he sees

And desires I-don't-know-what

Which is so gladly found.

For when once the will 

Is touched by God Himself

It cannot be satisfied

Except by God;

But since His Beauty is open

To faith alone, the will

Tastes Him in I-don't-know-what

Which is so gladly found.

Tell me, then, would you pity

A man so in love,

For he takes no delight

In all of creation...

I will never lose myself 

For that which the senses

Can take in here,

Nor for all the mind can hold,

No matter how lofty,

Nor for grace or beauty,

But only for I-don't-know-what

Which is so gladly found.