How beautiful does a significant look of a face clothe,
where enchanting is an eye that understands any angle?
It's like reading the one with the eyes
what the other wrote with the eyelids...
However, the eye has its boundary,
and the eyelid's writing cannot be read at a distance,
it is understood only nearby;
But how fast is not the thought, when it,
as an arrow from the arched bow,
is sent out with the voice of all its power?
How safe does it not take its object!
How easy and how beautiful does it not rise,
like the falcon floats over its target to maintain it,
so nothing can tear it away from it?
It is in the late summer towards the evening,
and your little window is open...
The moon is swelling, it surpasses itself in shine,
to obscure the mirror image in the sea,
which seems to radiate it almost dangerous - so beautifully!
It is blurred by oblivion, hiding in the clouds,
the sea is crippled. — You sit on the sofa,
the core floats around, the eye is not bound by anything;
Only in the infinity of the wide skies disappears the endless thoughts,
all things are gone, and it's like sailing you in the air!
You call the fleeting thoughts that show you an object,
and if a sigh had promising power,
if a human being was so light, so etheric,
that the pressed air flowing out in a sigh could take off,
and the sooner, the deeper the sigh would be,
like you now in would be the same with me!
He, like an arrow from the arched bow is sent out,
with the voice of all his strength, when the sight is long,
and a happy return is the arm that stretches it,
with an irreversible hope, the eye takes aim.
—Brigittte Lowther/Soren Kierkegaard