Thou art the sky and thou art the nest as well.
O thou beautiful, there in the nest is thy love that encloses the
soul with colours and sounds and odours.
There comes the morning with the golden basket in her right hand
bearing the wreath of beauty, silently to crown the earth.
And there comes the evening over the lonely meadows deserted by
herds, through trackless paths, carrying cool draughts of peace in
her golden pitcher from the western ocean of rest.
But there, where spreads the
infinite sky for the soul to take her fight in, reigns the stainless white radiance.
There is no day nor
night, nor form nor colour, and never, never a word.