He is intelligent, dazzlingly so. He has only to look at a thing, and he comprehends it through and through.
He is beautiful. There are no words describe the youthfulness of his countenance; he is fresh as the morning dew, and in his eyes, as in pools of crystal, one sees reflections of heaven.
He is strong. Nothing is too heavy for him. Nothing tires him. Nothing can resist his power.
He is lovable, always equal to himself, unchangeably peaceful and pacifying. And wherever he goes he leaves a trail of serenity and of joy.
He is grateful, grateful for the littlest words and gestures. And he remembers absolutely everything. It has happened, and often, I fear, that I have made him weep. Oh, yes, he weeps, but he pardons also, and very quickly. And he never holds a grudge.