You have always been nosebleed and nail-bite, the spit-shined halls where you harvested us with your tribal clang. Too long we saw your face in every shadow, felt the whole forest await your arrival like a nagging frost.
When his beloved Sophie died, Novalis Lay by her grave and wept himself to sleep. On the third night she met him in a dream. He woke transformed, longing for the last trance, “When sleep shall be without waking.”