The artist belongs to his work, not the work to the artist.

There is but one temple in the universe and that is the body of man.

Hymns to the Night :
Now I know when will come the last morning -- when the Light no more scares away
Night and Love -- when sleep shall be without waking, and but one continuous dream. I
feel in me a celestial exhaustion. Long and weariful was my pilgrimage to the holy
grave, and crushing was the cross. The crystal wave, which, imperceptible to the
ordinary sense, springs in the dark bosom of the mound against whose foot breaks the
flood of the world, he who has tasted it, he who has stood on the mountain frontier of
the world, and looked across into the new land, into the abode of the Night -- truly he
turns not again into the tumult of the world, into the land where dwells the Light in
ceaseless unrest.
On those heights he builds for himself tabernacles -- tabernacles of peace, there longs
and loves and gazes across, until the welcomest of all hours draws him down into the
waters of the spring -- afloat above remains what is earthly, and is swept back in
storms, but what became holy by the touch of love, runs free through hidden ways to
the region beyond, where, like fragrances, it mingles with love asleep.
Still wakest thou, cheerful Light, that weary man to his labor -- and into me pourest
joyous life -- but thou wilest me not away from Memory's moss-grown monument.
Gladly will I stir busy hands, everywhere behold where thou hast need of me -- praise
the lustre of thy splendor -- pursue unwearied the lovely harmonies of thy skilled
handicraft -- gladly contemplate the clever pace of thy mighty, luminous clock --
explore the balance of the forces and the laws of the wondrous play of countless worlds
and their seasons. But true to the Night remains my secret heart, and to creative Love,
her daughter. Canst thou show me a heart eternally true? has thy sun friendly eyes
that know me? do thy stars lay hold of my longing hand? and return me the tender
pressure and the caressing word? was it thou did adorn them with colors and a
flickering outline -- or was it she who gave to thy jewels a higher, a dearer weight?
What delight, what pleasure offers thy life, to outweigh the transports of Death? Wears
not everything that inspires us the color of the Night? She sustains thee mother-like,
and to her thou owest all thy glory. Thou wouldst vanish into thyself -- in boundless
space thou wouldst dissolve, if she did not hold thee fast, if she swaddled thee not, so
that thou grewest warm, and flaming, begot the universe. Truly I was, before thou
wast -- the mother sent me with my brothers and sisters to inhabit thy world, to hallow
it with love that it might be an ever-present memorial -- to plant it with flowers
unfading. As yet they have not ripened, these thoughts divine -- as yet is there small
trace of our coming revelation -- One day thy clock will point to the end of time, and
then thou shalt be as one of us, and shalt, full of ardent longing, be extinguished and
die. I feel in me the close of thy activity -- heavenly freedom, and blessed return. With
wild pangs I recognize thy distance from our home, thy resistance against the ancient,
glorious heaven. Thy rage and thy raving are in vain. Unscorchable stands the cross --
victory-banner of our breed.
Over I journey
And for each pain
A pleasant sting only
Shall one day remain.
Yet in a few moments
Then free am I,
And intoxicated
In Love's lap lie.
Life everlasting
Lifts, wave-like, at me,


I gaze from its summit
Down after thee.
Your lustre must vanish
Yon mound underneath --
A shadow will bring thee
Thy cooling wreath.
Oh draw at my heart, love,
Draw till I'm gone,
That, fallen asleep, I
Still may love on.
I feel the flow of
Death's youth-giving flood
To balsam and ether
Transform my blood --
I live all the daytime
In faith and in might
And in holy fire
I die every night.

Hymns to the Night :
Must the morning always return? Will the despotism of the earthly never cease? Unholy
activity consumes the angel-visit of the Night. Will the time never come when Love's
hidden sacrifice shall burn eternally? To the Light a season was set; but everlasting and
boundless is the dominion of the Night. -- Endless is the duration of sleep. Holy Sleep
-- gladden not too seldom in this earthly day-labor, the devoted servant of the Night.
Fools alone mistake thee, knowing nought of sleep but the shadow which, in the
twilight of the real Night, thou pitifully castest over us. They feel thee not in the golden
flood of the grapes -- in the magic oil of the almond tree -- and the brown juice of the
poppy. They know not that it is thou who hauntest the bosom of the tender maiden,
and makest a heaven of her lap -- never suspect it is thou, opening the doors to
Heaven, that steppest to meet them out of ancient stories, bearing the key to the
dwellings of the blessed, silent messenger of secrets infinite.

Hymns to the Night :
Before all the wondrous shows of the widespread space around him, what living,
sentient thing loves not the all-joyous light -- with its colors, its rays and undulations,
its gentle omnipresence in the form of the wakening Day? The giant-world of the
unresting constellations inhales it as the innermost soul of life, and floats dancing in its
blue flood -- the sparkling, ever-tranquil stone, the thoughtful, imbibing plant, and the
wild, burning multiform beast inhales it -- but more than all, the lordly stranger with
the sense-filled eyes, the swaying walk, and the sweetly closed, melodious lips. Like a
king over earthly nature, it rouses every force to countless transformations, binds and
unbinds innumerable alliances, hangs its heavenly form around every earthly
substance. -- Its presence alone reveals the marvelous splendor of the kingdoms of the
world.
Aside I turn to the holy, unspeakable, mysterious Night. Afar lies the world -- sunk in a
deep grave -- waste and lonely is its place. In the chords of the bosom blows a deep
sadness. I am ready to sink away in drops of dew, and mingle with the ashes. -- The
distances of memory, the wishes of youth, the dreams of childhood, the brief joys and
vain hopes of a whole long life, arise in gray garments, like an evening vapor after the
sunset. In other regions the light has pitched its joyous tents. What if it should never
return to its children, who wait for it with the faith of innocence?
What springs up all at once so sweetly boding in my heart, and stills the soft air of
sadness? Dost thou also take a pleasure in us, dark Night? What holdest thou under
thy mantle, that with hidden power affects my soul? Precious balm drips from thy hand
out of its bundle of poppies. Thou upliftest the heavy-laden wings of the soul. Darkly
and inexpressibly are we moved -- joy-startled, I see a grave face that, tender and
worshipful, inclines toward me, and, amid manifold entangled locks, reveals the
youthful loveliness of the Mother. How poor and childish a thing seems to me now the
Light -- how joyous and welcome the departure of the day -- because the Night turns
away from thee thy servants, you now strew in the gulfs of space those flashing
globes, to proclaim thy omnipotence -- thy return -- in seasons of thy absence. More
heavenly than those glittering stars we hold the eternal eyes which the Night hath
opened within us. Farther they see than the palest of those countless hosts -- needing
no aid from the light, they penetrate the depths of a loving soul -- that fills a loftier
region with bliss ineffable. Glory to the queen of the world, to the great prophet of the
holier worlds, to the guardian of blissful love -- she sends thee to me -- thou tenderly
beloved -- the gracious sun of the Night, -- now am I awake -- for now am I thine and
mine -- thou hast made me know the Night -- made of me a man -- consume with
spirit-fire my body, that I, turned to finer air, may mingle more closely with thee, and
then our bridal night endure forever.