God always strives together with those who strive.
On me the tempest falls. It does not make me tremble. O holy Mother Earth, O air and sun, behold me. I am wronged.
Mourn for me rather as living than as dead.
In every tyrant's heart there springs in the end this poison, that he cannot trust a friend.
Words are healers of the sick tempered.
The moving light, rejoicing in its strength, Sped from the pyre of pine, and urged its way, In golden glory, like some strange new sun.