Hymns To The Night, by German philosopher, author, and poet Georg Philipp Friedrich Freiherr von Hardenberg (1772-1801), translated to English from the original German by George MacDonald, 1897.
1
Before all the wondrous shows of the widespread space around him, what living, sentient thing loves not the all-joyous
light -- with its colors, its rays and
undulations, its gentle omnipresence in the form of the wakening Day? The
giant-world of the unresting constellations inhales it as the innermost soul of life, and floats dancing in its blue flood --
the sparkling, ever-tranquil stone, the thoughtful, imbibing plant, and the wild, burning multiform
beast inhales it -- but
more than all, the lordly stranger with the sense-filled eyes, the swaying walk, and the sweetly closed, melodious lips.
Like a king over
earthly nature, it rouses every force to countless transformations, binds and unbinds innumerable
alliances, hangs its heavenly form around every earthly substance. -- Its presence alone reveals the marvelous splendor of the kingdoms of the
world.
Aside I turn to the
holy, unspeakable, mysterious Night. Afar lies the world -- sunk in a deep grave -- waste and lonely is its place. In the chords of the bosom blows a deep sadness. I am ready to sink away in drops of dew, and mingle with the ashes. -- The distances of
memory, the wishes of youth, the dreams of
childhood, the brief joys and vain hopes of a whole long life, arise in gray garments, like an evening vapor after the sunset. In other regions the light has pitched its
joyous tents. What if it should never return to its children, who wait for it with the
faith of innocence?
What springs up all at once so sweetly boding in my heart, and stills the soft air of
sadness? Dost thou also take a
pleasure in us, dark Night? What holdest thou under thy mantle, that with hidden power affects my soul? Precious balm drips from thy hand out of its bundle of poppies. Thou upliftest the heavy-laden wings of the soul. Darkly and
inexpressibly are we moved -- joy-startled, I see a grave face that, tender and
worshipful, inclines toward me, and, amid manifold entangled locks, reveals the youthful loveliness of the Mother. How poor and
childish a thing seems to me now
the Light -- how joyous and welcome the departure of the day -- because the Night turns away from thee thy servants,
you now strew in the gulfs of space those flashing globes, to proclaim thy
omnipotence -- thy return -- in seasons of thy
absence. More heavenly than those
glittering stars we hold the eternal eyes which the Night hath opened within us.
Farther they see than the palest of those countless hosts -- needing no aid from the light, they
penetrate the depths of a
loving soul -- that fills a loftier region with bliss ineffable. Glory to the queen of the world, to the great prophet of the
holier worlds, to the guardian of blissful
love -- she sends thee to me -- thou tenderly beloved -- the gracious sun of
the Night, -- now am I awake -- for now am I thine and mine -- thou hast made me know the Night -- made of me a
man -- consume with spirit-fire my
body, that I, turned to finer air, may mingle more closely with thee, and then our
bridal night endure forever.
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