Your temple, God, is in the sky,
but earth is your abode as well.
And birds among the limetrees fly,
and in the limetree forests dwell.
A bridge is cast to us, which glows
with stars all different to view;
across it angels walk in rows,
who always speak of us to you.
If, God, all this is really so,
if I have rightly understood,
give me a sign, and let me know
that I am singing as I should:
To her, who is in grief, appear,
a Light that eyesight cannot heed—
and render blindingly clear
each explanation she may heed.
For lovelier than birds that sing,
more blessed than an angel's lyre
are gentle lashes quivering
and smiling lips that we admire.
