Joy, Whose Hand Is Ever At His

Soft Closer Of Our Eyes! Low Murmur Of Tender Lullabies!

Already With Thee! Tender Is The Night. . . But Here There Is No Light. . .

Thou, Silent Form, Dost Tease Us Out Of Thought As Doth Eternity.

What Is More Gentle Than A Wind Is Summer?

Even Bees, The Little Almsmen Of Spring Bowers, Know There Is Richest Juice In Poison-flowers.