Quote: St. Symeon the New Theologian

It is invisible, and no hand can lay hold of it,

Fresh snow on the peaks above Ross Lake.

Intangible, and yet it can be felt everywhere…

What is it? O wonder! What is it not? For it has no name.
In my foolishness I tried to grasp it,
And I closed my hand, thinking I held it fast:
But it escaped, and I could not retain it in my fingers.
Full of sadness, I unclenched my grip
And saw it once again in the palm of my hand.

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