He isn’t of the present, but neither comes he unannounced.
There are many I should like to invite, but you
Who were devoted to mankind in a friendly, yet
Earnest way, who liked to stay at the well
Under Syrian palms, near the city—where fields
Of grain rustled in the wind, and you breathed in
The coolness from the shaded holy mountain,
And the loyal clouds, your friends,
Cast their shade around you as well,
So that your holy, daring radiance shone gently
Through the wilderness toward men, o Youth!
But then a deadly fate enshadowed you
More darkly, terribly and definitively
In the middle of your words. Thus everything
From heaven passes quickly, but not in vain.
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