Now I know when will come the last morning: when the light no more scares
away the 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 whoose 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 labour, and into me pourest gladsome life; but thou
wilest me not away from Memory’s mossgrown monument. Gladly will I bestir
the deedy hands, everywhere behold where thou hast need of me; bepraise
the rich pomp of thy splendour; 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 in 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 aether, it
Changes my blood!
I live all the daytime
In faith and in might:
In holy rapture
I die every night.