Wanderer's Night Songs. (From Goethe)
Thou that from the heavens art,
Every pain and sorrow stillest,
And the doubly wretched heart
Doubly with refreshment fillest,
I am weary with contending!
Why this rapture and unrest?
Come ah, come into my breast!
O'er all the hill-tops
Is quiet now,
In all the tree-tops
Hardly a breath;
The birds are asleep in the trees:
Wait; soon like these
Thou too shalt rest.