“Oh, kind is Death that Life’s long trouble closes,
Yet at Death’s coming Life shrinks back affright;
It sees the dark hand,—not that it encloses
                A cup of light.

So oft the Spirit seeing Love draw nigh
As ’neath the shadow of destruction, quakes,
For Self, dark tyrant of the Soul, must die,
                When Love awakes.

Aye, let him die in darkness! But for thee,—
Breathe thou the breath of morning and be free!”

RÜCKERT. Translated by F. W. B.