Phantastes/Chapter 22

"Niemand hat meine Gestalt als der Ich." Schoppe, in JEAN PAUL'S Titan.

"No one has my form but the I."

"Joy's a subtil elf. I think man's happiest when he forgets himself." CYRIL TOURNEUR, The Revenger's Tragedy.

The sun, like a golden knot on high, Gathers the glories of the sky, And binds them into a shining tent, Roofing the world with the firmament. And through the pavilion the rich winds blow, And through the pavilion the waters go. And the birds for joy, and the trees for prayer, Bowing their heads in the sunny air, And for thoughts, the gently talking springs, That come from the centre with secret things— All make a music, gentle and strong, Bound by the heart into one sweet song. And amidst them all, the mother Earth Sits with the children of her birth; She tendeth them all, as a mother hen Her little ones round her, twelve or ten: Oft she sitteth, with hands on knee, Idle with love for her family. Go forth to her from the dark and the dust, And weep beside her, if weep thou must; If she may not hold thee to her breast, Like a weary infant, that cries for rest At least she will press thee to her knee, And tell a low, sweet tale to thee, Till the hue to thy cheeky and the light to thine eye, Strength to thy limbs, and courage high To thy fainting heart, return amain, And away to work thou goest again. From the narrow desert, O man of pride, Come into the house, so high and wide.

Thou goest thine, and I go mine— Many ways we wend; Many days, and many ways, Ending in one end.

Many a wrong, and its curing song; Many a road, and many an inn; Room to roam, but only one home For all the world to win.