Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - Letter II
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the freshening breeze to wake, and the moon to burst
forth in all her glory to glide with solemn elegance
through the azure expanse.
The cow’s bell has ceased to tinkle the herd to rest;
they have all paced across the heath. Is not this the
witching time of night? The waters murmur, and fall
with more than mortal music, and spirits of peace walk
abroad to calm the agitated breast. Eternity is in these
moments. Worldly cares melt into the airy stuff that
dreams are made of, and reveries, mild and enchanting
as the first hopes of love or the recollection of lost enjoyment,
carry the hapless wight into futurity, who
in bustling life has vainly strove to throw off the grief
which lies heavy at the heart. Good night! A crescent
hangs out in the vault before, which woos me to
stray abroad. It is not a silvery reflection of the sun,
but glows with all its golden splendour. Who fears
the fallen dew? It only makes the mown grass smell
more fragrant. Adieu!
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