O Faithful Conscience, Delicately Pure, How Doth

This Mountain Is So Formed That It Is Always Wearisome When One Begins The Ascent, But Becomes Easier The Higher One Climbs.

Do Not Desert Me When I Need You Most. And If We Can't Go On Together, Let's Retrace Our Steps As Quickly As We Can.

Here My Powers Rest From Their High Fantasy, But Already I Could Feel My Being Turned- Instinct And Intellect Balanced Equally. As In A Wheel Whose Motion Nothing Jars- By The Love That Moves The Sun And The Other Stars.

There Is No Greater Pain Than To Remember, In Our Present Grief, Past Happiness.

Like The Lark That Soars In The Air, First Singing, Then Silent, Content With The Last Sweetness That Satiates It, Such Seemed To Me That Image, The Imprint Of The Eternal Pleasure.