The Rudolf Steiner Archive

7. Novalis and his “Hymns to the Night”

[ 1 ] A poem is now to be recited; in a deeper sense, the appropriate mood for this can only exist because the majority of the friends present have, in recent times, dealt in depth with the subject matter of the spiritual world in connection with the entire historical development of humanity. What is being presented here truly brings home to us how spiritual science or theosophy is not merely proclaimed to the world through the Theosophical Society, but that theosophy—as a teaching grounded in the great occult truths and wisdoms—is something that has already flowed through the greatest minds of antiquity, who sought a higher world. And, when all is said and done, we can find many personalities in both ancient and modern times who actually show us that, in their conceptions, ideas, feelings, and sensibilities—as well as in their attitudes toward life—they were thoroughly imbued with a worldview from which they acted, one that we can call theosophical, and that they unfolded their entire life’s work in harmony with it. One such truly unique figure was Novalis, who lived during the last three decades of the 18th century.

[ 2 ] Novalis did not live to see his thirtieth birthday, and it is to be hoped that the recitation of his “Hymns to the Night” will foster an awareness that these hymns express—as perfectly as was possible in the last three decades of the 18th century—precisely the recognition of these spiritual-scientific truths in the most comprehensive sense.

[ 3 ] Novalis, whose secular name was Friedrich von Hardenberg, was born on May 2, 1772, into one of the most distinguished noble families. Anyone who has the opportunity to visit Weimar should not miss the chance to view the deeply impressive bust of Novalis. It is one of the artifacts of classical Weimar that clearly illustrates just how much spiritual high culture was associated with this era, the end of the 18th century. Anyone who looks at this peculiar bust—if they are at all sensitive to such things—will even get the impression that from this physiognomy, which one might say transcends the sphere of base humanity, a soul is expressed that was entirely rooted in the occult, in the spiritual worlds. And yet Novalis is one of those figures who serve as living proof of how this spirituality—this ascent into the highest spiritual worlds attainable by human beings—is compatible with a firm, practical grounding in physical reality. Essentially, Novalis never came into serious conflict with the rather conservative traditions within whose circles his family lived, although it should be noted in particular that this family always possessed a free receptivity to all that is noble and good, even if it might initially appear unfamiliar to people.

[ 4 ] When we study Novalis’s biography—which is itself a work of art—and allow it to sink in, his father strikes us as a man with a practical disposition. Novalis was, in fact, trained for a very practical profession in accordance with bourgeois expectations, one that required knowledge of law and mathematics. He became a mining engineer. This is not the place to elaborate on how, particularly in this profession, he was a delight to those with whom he worked. Nor is this the time to demonstrate how he not only completely mastered the mathematical and physical sciences—which formed the foundation of this profession—in both theory and practice, but also how he was, above all, a consummate mathematician. What is most important is what Novalis achieved as a spiritual being through mathematics in the inner structure of his being.

[ 5 ] If mathematics demonstrates in detail how it enables one to rise to a pure, senseless form of thought, then—when it comes to pointing to a prime example—we find one here in Novalis, where external observation plays no part. For him, life in the concepts of mathematics became a great poem that filled him with delight, so that his soul felt uplifted when he immersed himself in numbers and quantities. For him, it became the expression of divine creation, of divine thought, as it flashes into space in the directions and measures of force and crystallizes there. For his mind, mathematics became the path to the warmest of experiences, the path to spiritual life, whereas for the many people who know it only from the outside, it remains something cold. This is all the more significant in that, in Novalis, this spirituality confronts us with a tenderness and subtlety found in hardly any other of the greatest minds.

[ 6 ] Novalis was a contemporary of Goethe. However, one must not place the spiritual qualities that Novalis possessed on the same level as those possessed by Goethe. Goethe had reached a certain level through a genuine process of initiation guided by the higher worlds. Novalis, on the other hand, lived a life that can best be described by saying: This young man, who left the physical plane at the age of twenty-nine and who gave more to the German spirit than a hundred or a thousand others, lived a life that was, in fact, the memory of a previous one. Through a very specific event, the spiritual experiences of earlier incarnations were brought to the surface, presented themselves to the soul, and flowed out of that soul in delicate, rhythmically undulating poems.

[ 7 ] Thus we can see that Novalis understood how a human being can be lifted, along with his soul, into a higher world. For Novalis, it was possible to see how waking daily life, with its ordinary consciousness, is only a fragment of humanity’s present existence, and how every soul that, in the evening, sinks into unconsciousness—leaving behind the external perceptions of the day—is in truth sinking into the spiritual world. He was able to feel deeply and to know that in those spiritual worlds into which the soul plunges at night lies the higher spiritual reality, and that the day, with all its impressions—even those of the sun and light—is only a fragment of the entire spiritual reality. And the stars, which seem to send down the light of day stealthily during the night, appeared to him only as a faint glow, while the very truth of the spiritual dawned upon him in that consciousness which illuminates the seer in the dazzling, bright astral light when he is able to transport himself into the night in spirit. Thus the worlds of the night—the true spiritual worlds—reveal themselves to Novalis, and thus the night becomes precious to him from this perspective.

[ 8 ] How did such memories of past incarnations come to the surface in him? How was it that the experiences of the occult world—which we can now describe through occult knowledge—could emerge in him in such a unique way? Life had untied from his soul the wisdom of past incarnations that lay dormant within it. One must view the event that brought these spiritual experiences to light from within this soul through the lens of spiritual contemplation if one wishes to understand it. Only childish ignorance could equate this event with the encounter between Goethe and Friederike at Sesenheim. Such a comparison strikes one as rather crude.

[ 9 ] During his stay in Grüningen, he met a thirteen-year-old girl. And secrets of the soul unfolded—secrets that one must never call a love affair without hurting the soul’s tenderness. Essentially, in Sophie von Kühn—that was the girl’s name—we have something like a being departing from life. She fell ill very soon after and died shortly thereafter. Just as the spirit struggled to break free within Sophie von Kühn, so too do the inner spiritual faculties struggle to break free within Novalis’s own inner life.

[ 10 ] Perhaps—if one is willing to consider the matter at all—there is no other case in which the inadequacy of a way of thinking bound to external experience becomes as evident as in what we have had to endure in the assessment of this relationship—a relationship that can only be understood if one is able to perceive it fully in its spiritual nature—by our present-day materialistic age. People who say that science must rely on documents that it must above all bring to bear what can be positively grasped on the physical plane—such natural scientists, who represent the rather distorted side, the side of natural science that has become a farce—have made us witness how they believed they could demonstrate from the documents that, in essence, Novalis had fallen prey to an illusion in Grüningen. “Poetry is all well and good,” they say, “but let’s look at the documents; let’s see what kind of man Mr. von Rockenthien was—the man with whom Sophie von Kühn lived!” And let’s look—as one of the “Novalis experts” puts it—at a few little letters that Sophie von Kühn wrote to Novalis. Sophie von Kühn made a spelling mistake not just in every line, but in almost every word! And Novalis is said to have fallen victim to a great deception.

[ 11 ] In Jena, where she was staying last year, she also saw Goethe—and she made a deep impression on him! Anyone who cannot grasp that these unique words of Goethe’s are worth more than any documents one might unearth—since all documents can lie—anyone who, when seeking to demonstrate something with evidence, fails to consider also providing the counterevidence, is beyond help despite all his scholarship.

[ 12 ] What did this event mean to Novalis? Sophie von Kühn died, and Novalis seemed to immerse himself in the mood: “I am dying after her!” From that moment on, he was never separated from her in his soul. The power that had flowed from the soul of the late Sophie von Kühn conveyed to him the experience of the night within his own soul, and the great experiences, as he depicted them in his poetry, dawned upon him.

[ 13 ] Once again, a woman crossed his path: Julie von Charpentier. To him, however, she was merely the earthly symbol of the soul of the late Sophie von Kühn. The insights he poured into Hymns to the Night were drawn from his soul only through this first spiritual bond.

Here, Marie von Sivers (Marie Steiner) performed the first and second hymns.

I

What living, sentient being does not love, above all the wondrous phenomena of the vast space around him, the most joyful light—with its colors, its rays and ripples; its gentle omnipresence, like the dawning day. Like the innermost soul of life, it breathes through the restless, gigantic world of the stars, and swims dancing in its blue tide—it breathes through the sparkling, eternally resting stone, the sensitive, absorbing plant, and the wild, fiery, multifaceted animal—but above all through the magnificent stranger with the expressive eyes, the floating gait, and the delicately closed, resonant lips. Like a king of earthly nature, it calls every force to countless transformations, forges and breaks infinite alliances, and hangs its heavenly image upon every earthly being. — Its presence alone reveals the wondrous splendor of the world’s realms.

I turn downward toward the sacred, ineffable, mysterious night. Far away lies the world—submerged in a deep tomb—desolate and lonely is its place. A deep melancholy stirs in the strings of my heart. I wish to sink down into dewdrops and mingle with the ashes. — Distant memories, youthful desires, childhood dreams, the brief joys and vain hopes of a whole long life come in gray robes, like evening mist after sunset. In other realms, light shone upon the merry gatherings. Will it never return to its children, who await it with the innocence of faith?

What suddenly wells up so foreboding beneath the heart, and is swallowed by the soft air of melancholy? Do you, too, take pleasure in us, dark night? What do you hold beneath your cloak that, though invisible to me, touches my soul so deeply? Delicious balm drips from your hand, from the bundle of poppies. You lift up the heavy wings of the spirit. Dark and inexpressible, we feel moved—I see a solemn face, joyfully startled, that leans toward me gently and reverently, and beneath infinitely entwined curls reveals the mother’s beloved youth. How meager and childish the light now seems to me—how joyful and blessed is the day’s farewell—So, merely because the night turns your servants away from you, you scattered the luminous spheres across the vastness of space to proclaim your omnipotence—your return—during the times of your absence. More heavenly than those flashing stars, the infinite eyes that the night has opened within us seem to us. They see farther than the palest of those countless hosts—needing no light, they pierce the depths of a loving soul—which fills a higher realm with unspeakable delight. Praise to the Queen of the World, the lofty herald of sacred worlds, the nurturer of blissful love—she sends you to me—tender beloved—lovely sun of the night, — now I awaken — for I am Yours and Mine — you have proclaimed the night to be my life — made me human — consume my body with spiritual fervor, so that I may joyfully mingle more intimately with you and thus the wedding night may last forever.

II

Must the morning always return? Does the power of the earthly realm never end? Wretched busyness consumes the heavenly breath of the night. Will the secret sacrifice of love never burn eternally? A time was allotted to the light; but the night’s dominion is timeless and spaceless. — Eternal is the duration of sleep. Holy Sleep—do not too rarely bestow happiness upon those consecrated to the night in this earthly toil of the day. Only fools fail to recognize you and know of no sleep other than the shadow you compassionately cast upon us in that twilight of the true night. They do not feel you in the golden flood of grapes—in the wondrous oil of the almond tree, and the brown sap of the poppy. They do not know that it is you who hovers around the tender maiden’s bosom and makes her womb a heaven—they do not realize that, emerging from ancient tales, you step forth to open the heavens and bear the key to the dwellings of the blessed, a silent messenger of infinite mysteries.

[ 14 ] This is how far the poem introduces us to the worlds in which Novalis lived as a spirit when he was immersed in his experience of eternal wisdom.

[ 15 ] You have no doubt heard many times that such an ascent into the higher worlds is linked to a penetration into yet other mysteries of existence. Therefore, his gaze also had to wander back to the times of the distant past, when what now lives in the world was still in the bosom of the Divine and had not yet descended into the earthly body. When the souls of the natural kingdoms still lived in pure spirituality—which could be attained only in the astral world—that was when the events unfolded that Novalis revealed to the seer in mighty visions as he turned his gaze backward. He saw the time when the souls of plants, animals, and human beings were still companions of divine beings, when that interruption of consciousness had not yet occurred—which for human beings manifests in the alternation between night and day—and when there was still no trace of that interruption expressed by the words “birth” and “death.” All life flowed within the spiritual-soul realm, and the words “birth” and “death” had no meaning yet for the course of events in the distant past.

[ 16 ] Then the thought of death struck this life of the gods and divine earthly beings, and the spiritual world descended into the earthly world. The divine beings were concealed within earthly bodies; they were enchanted into the realms of minerals, plants, and animals. But whoever becomes capable of returning once more to the spiritual world finds the gods in all phenomena; such a person learns to recognize that the gods were connected with human beings even before earthly life existed. And they learn what the life of the soul is; they come to realize that the day, with all its impressions, is but a faint glimpse of the great world, the very essence of which is duration, eternity. And they learn to demystify what hovers in the realms of nature.

[ 17 ] This entered Novalis’s soul when, in his “Eternal,” he was united with Sophie’s soul—and died after her. And in this dying after her, the spirit came to life. There he had experienced this “die and become,” and there he came to understand what he calls his “magical idealism.”

This was followed by a recitation of the fourth hymn, starting at line 20, and the beginning of the fifth hymn.

III

Once, when I shed bitter tears, when my hope melted away in pain, and I stood alone on the barren hill that held the form of my life within a narrow, dark space—alone as no one had ever been before, driven by unspeakable fear—powerless, nothing but a thought of misery. — As I looked around for help, unable to move forward or backward, and clung with infinite longing to my fleeing, fading life: — then, from the blue distances—from the heights of my former bliss—came a twilight shiver—and at once the bond of birth—the shackle of light—was torn asunder. Earthly glory fled, and my sorrow with it—together, the melancholy flowed into a new, unfathomable world—you, night’s rapture, heaven’s slumber, came upon me—the landscape rose gently upward; above the landscape hovered my liberated, newborn spirit. The hill became a cloud of dust—through the cloud I saw the transfigured features of my beloved. Eternity rested in her eyes—I took her hands, and the tears became a sparkling, unbreakable bond. Millennia swept downward into the distance like thunderstorms. Upon her neck I wept tears of rapture for the new life. — It was the first, the only dream—and only since then have I felt an eternal, unshakable faith in the night sky and its light, my beloved.

IV

Now I know when the last morning will come—when the light no longer drives away the night and love—when slumber will be eternal and nothing but an inexhaustible dream. I feel a heavenly weariness within me. — The pilgrimage to the Holy Sepulcher, bearing the cross, was long and exhausting for me. The crystalline wave, inaudible to the common senses, wells up in the dark bosom of the hill, at the foot of which the earthly flood breaks; whoever has tasted it, whoever stood atop the world’s border mountains and looked across to the new land, the abode of the night — truly, such a one does not return to the hustle and bustle of the world, to the land where light dwells in eternal restlessness.

Up there he builds himself huts, huts of peace; he yearns and loves, gazes across, until the most perfect of all hours draws him down into the well of the spring—the earthly floats on top, is driven back by storms, but what has been sanctified by love’s touch flows, dissolved, through hidden passages into the realm beyond, where, like fragrances, it mingles with slumbering loves. Still you rouse, cheerful light, the weary to work—you instill joyful life within me—but you do not lure me away from the moss-covered monument of memory. Gladly will I set my diligent hands to work, look around wherever you need me—praise the full splendor of your radiance—undeterred, trace the beautiful interplay of your artful work—gladly observe the meaningful passage of your mighty, luminous clock—fathom the balance of forces and the rules of the wondrous interplay of countless spaces and their times. But my secret heart remains faithful to the night, and to creative love, its daughter. Can you show me an eternally faithful heart? Does your sun have friendly eyes that recognize me? Do your stars take my longing hand? Do they give me back the tender embrace and the caressing word? Have you adorned them with colors and light outlines—or was it _she_ who gave your adornments a higher, sweeter meaning? What delight, what pleasure does your life offer that outweighs the raptures of death? Does not everything that inspires us bear the color of the night? She carries you maternally, and to her you owe all your splendor. You would vanish into yourself—you would dissolve into endless space—if she did not hold you, did not bind you, so that you might grow warm and, blazing, bring forth the world. Truly, I was before you were—my mother sent me with my siblings to dwell in your world, to sanctify it with love, so that it might become an eternally beheld monument—to plant it with unfading flowers. These divine thoughts have not yet ripened—there are still few traces of our revelation—one day your clock will mark the end of time, when you will become like us, and, full of longing and fervor, you will fade away and die. Within me I feel the end of your restlessness—heavenly freedom, a blissful return. In wild agony I recognize your separation from our homeland, your resistance against the ancient, glorious heaven. Your rage and your fury are in vain. The cross stands unburnable—a banner of victory for our race.

I surge across,
And every torment
Will one day be a spur
To pleasure.
Just a little while longer,
Then I am free,
And lie intoxicated
In the bosom of love.
Infinite life
Surges powerfully within me,
I gaze down from above
Upon you.
On that hill
Your radiance fades—
A shadow brings
The cooling wreath.
O! Drink deeply, my beloved,
Of me with all your might,
So that I may fall asleep
And love.
I feel death’s
Rejuvenating tide,
Transforming my blood
Into balm and ether —
By day I live
Full of faith and courage
And die at night
In holy fervor.

[ 18 ] Thus Novalis was able to look back into the times when the gods were among humans, when everything took place on a spiritual plane, when spirits and souls had not yet descended into earthly bodies. Thus he was able to see the transition: how death entered the world, and how people in those times depicted death in its earthly form, and how they sought to beautify it through imagination and art. But death remained a mystery.

[ 19 ] Then something of universal significance came into being. And Novalis was able to perceive the universal significance of what was happening in the world at that time. The souls of the realms of nature had descended into the world. The memory of the spiritual source of existence had been forgotten, yet a special spiritual being had remained in this universal womb from which everything had descended. One being had remained behind for the time being; it had stayed above and had only temporarily sent down its gift of grace, so that when humanity needed it most, it could descend itself into the earthly sphere. The Being of Spiritual Light—the Being hidden behind the physical Sun—had remained in the higher spiritual spheres. It dwells in the heavenly spheres and descends when humanity needs it, so that humanity may once again be carried upward into the spiritual worlds. And it descended when, with the Mystery of Golgotha, the Christ appeared in a physical human body.

[ 22 ] One comes to understand this Christ in his universal manifestation when one traces what lived within Jesus of Nazareth back to its spiritual origin, to that spiritual light. Then one also understands how this was interwoven with what was the inscrutable mystery of death. To the Greek mind, death appeared as a pondering youth, as a riddle that could not be solved. But even the Greeks sensed that the riddle hidden in the soul of this young man had found its solution in the event at Golgotha—that there life had triumphed over death, and that this had marked a new turning point for humanity.

[ 21 ] Novalis was able to perceive this; and through it he gained the faith in the mysteries, the mystical knowledge of the star that guided the ancient magical sages. Then the whole essence of what the death of Christ means became clear to him. Then, in the night of the soul, the mystery of death, the mystery of Christ, was revealed to him. It was then that this unique individual came to know—through his memory of past lives—what Christ, what the event at Golgotha, meant for the world.

Marie von Sivers (Marie Steiner) then recited the conclusion of the fifth hymn and the sixth hymn.

V

In times of old, an iron fate ruled over the widely scattered tribes of mankind with silent force. A dark, heavy shroud lay over their anxious souls—the Earth was infinite—the abode of the gods and their homeland. Their mysterious structure had stood for eternities. Above the red mountains of dawn, in the sacred bosom of the sea, dwelt the sun, the all-igniting, living light. An ancient giant bore this blissful world. Deep beneath the mountains lay the primordial sons of Mother Earth. Powerless in their destructive fury against the new, glorious race of gods and their kin, the joyful humans. The sea’s dark, green depths were a goddess’s womb. In the crystalline grottoes, a lush people reveled. Rivers, trees, flowers, and animals possessed human consciousness. Sweeter was the wine bestowed by visible youthful abundance—a god in the grapes—a loving, maternal goddess, rising up in full golden sheaves — the sacred intoxication of love, a sweet service to the fairest of goddesses — an eternally colorful festival of the children of heaven and the inhabitants of earth; life surged, like spring, through the centuries — All generations revered the delicate, manifold flame with childlike devotion as the highest thing in the world. It was but a thought. A terrifying dream image,

That dreadfully approached the joyful tables
And shrouded the mind in wild terror.
Here even the gods knew no counsel
That might fill the anxious breast with comfort.
Mysterious was this fiend’s path,
Whose fury no plea nor gift could quell;
It was Death who interrupted this feast of pleasure
With fear, pain, and tears.

Now forever parted from all things
That stir the heart here in sweet delight,
Separated from the beloved ones who here below
Are stirred by vain longing and long-lasting sorrow,
A faint dream seemed to be the dead man’s only lot,
Powerless struggle his only burden.
The wave of pleasure was shattered
Against the rock of endless vexation.

With a bold spirit and a fiery passion
Man adorned his ghastly mask,
A gentle youth extinguishes the light and rests—
Gentle is the end, like a breath from the harp.
Memory melts into a cool flood of shadows,
Thus sang the song to the sorrowful need.
Yet the eternal night remained unfathomable,
The solemn sign of a distant power.

The old world was drawing to a close. The pleasure garden of the young generation withered—the growing, childless humans strove upward into the freer, wild expanse. The gods vanished with their retinue—nature stood lonely and lifeless. With an iron chain, it bound the meager number and the strict measure. Like dust and air, the immeasurable bloom of life crumbled into dark words. Gone was the evocative faith, and the all-transforming, all-uniting heavenly companion, the imagination. A cold north wind blew unkindly across the frozen field, and the frozen land of wonders vanished into the ether. The distant reaches of the heavens filled with luminous worlds. Into the deeper sanctuary, into the higher realm of the mind, the soul of the world drew with its powers—to reign there until the dawn of the world’s glorious day. No longer was the light of the gods a dwelling place or a heavenly sign—they cast the veil of night over themselves. The night became the mighty womb of revelations—into it the gods returned—slumbering, to emerge in new, more glorious forms upon the transformed world. Among the people, who—despised above all others—had matured too soon and defiantly grown alien to the blissful innocence of youth, the new world appeared with a face never before seen — in the poverty of a poet’s hut — a son of the first virgin and mother—the infinite fruit of a mysterious embrace. The blooming wisdom of the East, foreshadowing the dawn, first recognized the beginning of the new age—a star showed her the way to the king’s humble cradle. In the distant future, they paid homage to him with splendor and fragrance, the highest wonders of nature. Solitary, the heavenly heart unfolded into a calyx of almighty love—turned toward the Father’s lofty countenance and resting upon the blissful bosom of the sweet and solemn Mother. With adoring fervor, the prophetic eye of the blossoming child gazed upon the days to come, toward his beloved ones, the offspring of his divine lineage, unconcerned with the earthly fate of his own days. Soon the most childlike minds, wondrously moved by heartfelt love, gathered around him. Like flowers, a new and strange life sprouted in his presence. Inexhaustible words and the most joyful of messages fell like sparks of a divine spirit from his friendly lips. From a distant shore, born under the serene sky of Hellas, a singer came to Palestine and surrendered his whole heart to the child prodigy:

You are the young man who, for a long time now,
Has stood upon our graves, lost in deep thought;
A comforting sign in the darkness—
The joyful dawn of a higher humanity.
What once plunged us into deep sorrow,
Now draws us away with sweet longing.
In death, eternal life was revealed,
You are death, and it is you who first heal us.

The singer set out for Hindustan, filled with joy—his heart intoxicated with sweet love; and he poured it out in fiery songs beneath that gentle sky, so that a thousand hearts turned toward him, and the joyful message grew upward in a thousand branches. Soon after the singer’s departure, that precious life fell victim to humanity’s profound decay—he died in his youth, torn away from the world he loved, from his weeping mother, and from his timid friends. His lovely mouth emptied the dark chalice of unspeakable suffering—in terrible anguish, the hour of the new world’s birth drew near. He struggled hard against the terrors of the old death—the weight of the old world lay heavily upon him. Once more he cast a kindly glance toward his mother—then came the liberating hand of eternal love—and he fell asleep. For but a few days, a deep veil hung over the roaring sea, over the trembling land—countless tears were shed by his loved ones—the mystery was unsealed—heavenly spirits lifted the ancient stone from the dark grave. Angels sat beside the slumbering one—gently fashioned from his dreams—awakened in new divine glory, he ascended to the heights of the newborn world—with his own hand he buried the old corpse in the abandoned cave, and with an almighty hand placed upon it the stone that no power can lift.

Still your loved ones weep tears of joy, tears of emotion and endless thanks at your grave—still they see you, joyfully startled, rise again—and rise with you; they see you weep with sweet fervor at your mother’s blissful bosom, walk solemnly with your friends, speak words as if plucked from the Tree of Life; they see you rushing with full longing into your Father’s arms, bringing young humanity and the inexhaustible cup of the golden future. Your mother soon hurried after you—in heavenly triumph—she was the first to be with you in the new homeland. Long ages have flowed by since then, and with ever-increasing splendor your new creation stirred—and thousands, emerging from pain and torment, full of faith, longing, and loyalty, followed you—reigning with you and the heavenly Virgin in the realm of love—serving in the temple of heavenly death and belonging to you for eternity.

The stone has been lifted—
Humanity has risen—
We all remain yours
And feel no bonds.
The deepest sorrow flees
Before your golden chalice,
When earth and life fade away,
At the Last Supper.

Death calls us to the wedding —
The lamps burn brightly —
The maidens are at hand —
There is no shortage of oil —
If only the distance resounded
With the sound of your procession,
And the stars called out to us
With human speech and sound.

Toward you, Mary,
A thousand hearts already rise.
In this shadow of a life
They longed only for you.
They hope to be healed
With a longing full of hope—
Will you, holy being,
Press them to your faithful breast?

So many who, burning with fervor
Consumed by bitter torment
And fleeing this world
Turned toward you;
Who appeared to us as helpers
In many times of need and pain—
We now come to them,
To be there forever.

Now weep at no grave,
For pain, whoever believes with love,
The sweet possession of love
Will be robbed from no one—
To soothe his longing,
The night inspires him—
By faithful children of heaven
His heart is guarded.

Take heart, life marches on
Toward eternal life;
Expanded by inner fervor
Our spirit is transfigured.
The world of stars will melt away
Into the golden wine of life,
We will savor it
And become bright stars.

Love is set free,
And there is no more separation.
Full life surges
Like an infinite sea.
Just _one_ night of bliss—
An eternal poem—
And the sun for us all
Is the face of God.

VI. Longing for Death

Down into the earth’s bosom,
Away from the realm of light,
The fury of pain and its wild onslaught
Are signs of a joyful departure.
In our narrow boat
We swiftly reach the shores of heaven.

Praise be to the eternal night,
Praise be to the eternal slumber.
The day has warmed us well,
And the long sorrow has withered.
Our delight in foreign lands has faded,
We want to go home to our Father.

What do we have in this world
With our love and faithfulness.
The old is cast aside,
What then is the new to us?
O! Lonely and deeply sorrowful stands
Whoever loves the past with fervor and piety.

The past, when the senses, light
Burned in lofty flames,
The Father’s hand and face
People still recognized,
And with lofty spirit, in simplicity
Many still resembled their archetype.

The days of old, when still in full bloom
Ancient lineages flourished,
And children, for the Kingdom of Heaven,
Longed for torment and death.
And even as pleasure and life spoke,
Yet many a heart broke for love.

The bygone days, when in the fervor of youth
God Himself revealed Himself
And in the courage of love
Consecrated His sweet life to an early death.
And did not cast away fear and pain,
So that He might remain precious to us.

With anxious longing we gaze upon them
Enveloped in dark night,
In this earthly life, never
Will our burning thirst be quenched.
We must journey to our homeland,
To behold that holy time.

What still delays our return?
Our loved ones have long since rested.
Their grave marks the end of our life’s journey,
Now we are filled with sorrow and dread.
We have nothing left to seek—
Our hearts are full—the world is empty.

Infinite and mysterious
A sweet shiver flows through us—
It seems to me that from distant depths
An echo of our sorrow resounds
Our loved ones surely long for us too
And have sent us a breath of longing.

Down to the sweet bride,
To Jesus, the Beloved—
Take comfort, as evening twilight falls
Upon the lovers, the sorrowful.
A dream breaks our bonds
And lowers us into the Father’s bosom.