.
.
.
.
--------------------
.
If thou would'st know the mystic song
Chaunted when the sphere was young,
Aloft, abroad, the paean swells,
O wise man, hear'st thou half it tells?
To the open ear it sings
The early genesis of things;
Of tendency through endless ages
Of star-dust and star-pilgrimages,
Of rounded worlds, of space and time,
Of the old floods' subsiding slime,
Of chemic matter, force and form,
Of poles and powers, cold, wet, and warm.
The rushing metamorphosis
Dissolving all that fixture is,
Melts things that be to things that seem,
And solid nature to a dream.'
EMERSON.
.
Was waer' ein Gott der nur von aussen stiesse,
Im Kreis das All am Finger laufen liesse
Ihm ziemt's, die Welt im Innern zu bewegen,
Natur in Sich, Sich in Natur zu hegen.'