For the first time in my life, I have discovered a poem that perfectly describes my experience with Truth (god, goddess, the infinite, the universe, or whatever you wish to call it):
The song that I came to sing remains unsung to this day.
I have spent my days in stringing and unstringing my instrument.
The time has not come true, the words have not been rightly set; only there is the agony of wishing in my heart.
The blossom has not yet opened; only the wind is sighing by.
I have not seen its face, nor have I listened to its voice; only I have heard its gentle footsteps from the road before my house.
The livelong day has passed in spreading its seat on the floor; but the lamp has not been lit and I cannot ask it into my house.
I live in the hope of meeting with it; but this meeting is not yet.
— Rabindranath Tagore, from Gitanjali, 1911