All our unquiet pulses cease!
In his Summer Night,
The calm moonlight seems to say,
Hast thou, then, still the old, unquiet breast?
He turns to the
Heavens whose pure dark regions have no sign
Of languor, though so calm and though so great,
Yet so untroubled, so unpassionate!
A world above man’s head to let him see
How boundless might his soul’s horizon be;