Hidden springs were playing music and my day its song thereto was chanting
On the melancholy shores.
The woe of life gone by, whence I had come, was wafted to me from the fragrances,
And from the converse of the trees and from the heavy ringing of insects over the waters;
And whole centuries there lay between my hand, that blossoms plucked,
And then, between my countenance and the mystical world
That in thousands of questioning glances into my soul so silently gazed.
The clouds have dimmed the setting sun.
And of the winds my soul inquired:
Are those approaching or receding clouds?
The winds were hushed, smooth like submissive mirrors the waters became,
And the stars, like waning fires in the cold waves of gleaming oceans,
Seethed and whispered over me, invisible:
Light dies only at the advent of greater light,
Of a greater, greater light.