Rife with harmonies is the flight of the birds. At night-fall the greening forests
have gathered together to quieter cathedrals;
the crystalline pastures of the doe.
Darkness appeases the sough of the brook, the humid shadows

and the flowers of summer, that gracefully ring in the wind.
Already the brow of the musing man darkens.

There's a shine of a small light, the goodness within his heart
and the peace of the meal; for hallowed are bread and wine
by the hands of God, and with the eyes of night the brother
quiescently looks at you, that he may rest from thorny wanderings.
O the dwelling in the enlivened blueness of night.

Dearly, too, the chamber's silence embraces the forefathers' shadows,
the purple-red martyrs, plaint of a distinguished descent,
that piously dies in the cloistered grandson.

For brighter the sufferer always wakes at the petrified threshold
from black and sinister minutes of madness.
And he is embraced by the chilly blueness and the luminous ending of autumn,
the silent house and the tales of the forest,
measure and law and the moonlit paths of the hermits.