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IV.
Now I know when will come the last
morning: when the light no more scares
away Night and Love, when sleep shall be
without waking, and but one continuous
dream. I feel in me a celestial
exhaustion. Long and weariful was my
pilgrimage to the holy grave, and crushing
was the cross. The crystal wave, which,
imperceptible to the ordinary sense,
springs in the dark bosom of the hillock
against whose foot breaks the flood of the
world, he who has tasted it, he who has
stood on the mountain frontier of the
world, and looked across into the new
land, into the abode of the Night, verily
he turns not again into the tumult of the
world, into the land where dwells the
Light in ceaseless unrest.
On those heights he builds for himself
tabernacles – tabernacles of peace; there
longs and loves and gazes across, until
the welcomest of all hours draws him down
into the waters of the spring. Afloat
above remains what is earthly, and is
swept back in storms; but what became holy
by the touch of love, runs free through
hidden ways to the region beyond, where,
like odours, it mingles with love asleep.
Still wakest thou, cheerful Light, the
weary man to his labor, and into me
pourest gladsome life; but thou wilest me
not away from Memory's moss-grown
monument. Gladly will I bestir the deedy
hands, everywhere behold where thou hast
need of me; bepraise the rich pomp of thy
splendor; pursue unwearied the lovely
harmonies of thy skilled handicraft;
gladly contemplate the thoughtful pace of
thy mighty, radiant clock; explore the
balance of the forces and the laws of the
wondrous play of countless worlds and
their seasons; but true to the Night
remains my secret heart, and to creative
Love, her daughter. Canst thou show
me a heart eternally true? Has thy sun
friendly eyes that know me? Do thy stars
lay hold of my longing hand? Do they
return me the tender pressure and the
caressing word? Was it thou didst bedeck
them with colours and a flickering
outline? Or was it she who gave to
thy jewels a higher, a dearer
significance? What delight, what pleasure
offers thy life, to outweigh the
transports of Death? Wears not everything
that inspirits us the livery of the Night?
Thy mother, it is she who brings thee
forth, and to her thou owest all thy
glory. Thou wouldst vanish into thyself,
thou wouldst dissipate the boundless
space, if she did not hold thee fast, if
she swaddled thee not, so that thou
grewest warm, and, flaming gavest birth to
the universe. Verily I was before thou
wast; the mother sent me with my sisters
to inhabit thy world, to sanctify it with
love that it might be an ever present
memorial, to plant it with flowers
unfading. As yet they have not ripened,
these thoughts divine; as yet is there
small trace of our coming apocalypse. One
day thy clock will point to the end of
Time, and then thou shalt be as one of us,
and shalt, full of ardent longing, be
extinguished and die. I feel in me the
close of thy activity, I taste heavenly
freedom, and happy restoration. With wild
pangs I recognize thy distance from our
home, thy feud with the ancient lordly
Heaven. Thy rage and thy raving are in
vain. Inconsumable stands the cross,
victory-flag of our race.
Over I pilgrim
Where every pain
Zest only of pleasure
Shall one day remain.
Yet a few moments
Then free am I,
And intoxicated
In Love's lap lie.
Life everlasting
Lifts, wave-like, at me:
I gaze from its summit
Down after thee.
Oh Sun, thou must vanish
Yon hillock beneath;
A shadow will bring thee
Thy cooling wreath.
Oh draw at my heart, love,
Draw till I'm gone;
That, fallen asleep, I
Still may love on!
I feel the flow of
Death's youth-giving flood;
To balsam and æther, it
Changes my blood!
I live all the daytime
In faith and in might:
In holy rapture
I die every night.
(p. 13-15)
III.
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V.
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