“Pour, dear moon, pour your silver glitter down through the greenery of beeches, where phantasms and dream-shapes are always floating before me! Reveal yourself, that I may find the place where my darling often sat, and often forgot, in the wind of beech and linden trees, the golden city. Reveal yourself, that I may enjoy the bushes which swept coolness to her, and that I may lay a wreath upon that pasture where she listened to the brook. Then, dear moon, then take up your veil again, and mourn your friend, and weep through the clouds as one abandoned weeps.”

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