have patience.
There are beings who demand nothing further; mortals, who, having the azure of heaven, say:
"It is enough!" dreamers absorbed in the wonderful, dipping into the idolatry of nature, indifferent to good and evil, contemplators of cosmos and radiantly forgetful of man, who do not understand how people can occupy themselves with the hunger of these, and the thirst of those, with the nudity of the poor in winter, with the lymphatic curvature of the little spinal column, with the pallet, the attic, the dungeon, and the rags of shivering young girls, when they can dream beneath the trees; peaceful and terrible spirits they, and pitilessly satisfied. Strange to say, the infinite suffices them.
That great need of man, the finite, which admits of embrace, they ignore.
The finite which admits of progress and sublime toil, they do not think about. The indefinite, which is born from the human and divine combination of the infinite and the finite, escapes them.
Provided that they are face to face with immensity, they smile.
Joy never, ecstasy forever. Their life lies in surrendering their personality in contemplation. The history of humanity is for them only a detailed plan.
All is not there; the true All remains without; what is the use of busying oneself over that detail, man?
Man suffers, that is quite possible; but look at Aldebaran rising!