In me Thou Thyself portrayest,
As in one small drop the sun.
Naught! Yet life I feel throughout me,
And, content with naught about me,
Upward fly with eager heart.
That Thou art, my soul supposes,
Tries, and with this reas’ning closes:
“Sure I am, hence Thou too art.”
Yes, Thou art—all nature tells me;
Whispers back my heart the thought;