One still morning in a high, hushed village on that green island of cypress and pine, sun-beat oak and rock, from a rooftop whose loose tiles dislodge from my careless steps
When his beloved Sophie died, Novalis Lay by her grave and wept himself to sleep. On the third night she met him in a dream. He woke transformed, longing for the last trance, “When sleep shall be without waking.”
Goddess, I have watched your motions gratify the world. Votaries of all casts and ages, genders, voices bow to you as they must, for nothing follows without you.