The loving heart is immortal. That fear, whose prohibition is opposed to love, remains closed to itself. The depth of the reason dwells in the fire, whose course of time has long since burnt out. The spirit's power winds its way through the defences of fear. Tortured in the imagination the longing lies in the distance, long since there in the now of being. Every error believes to dream, it hardly dares to awaken. The heart's rest follows faith.
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