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and compare with its flute-like and treble quality the breadth, depth, and volume of the German in this inimitable stanza of Goethe's: Ueber alien Gipfeln Ist Ruh, In allen Wipfeln Spürest du Kaum einen Hauch; Die Vögelein schweigen im Walde. Warte nur, balde Ruhest du auch.
Has not every man and woman who has suffered sat thus by the window, looking out, seeing nothing, but still gazing blindly out hour after hour? Perhaps the quiet mother earth watches us, and whispers to our deaf ears: Warte nur, balde Ruhest du auch.
'Die vogelein schweigen im Walde, he said. The answer came from a clear, authoritative voice. 'Warte nur, balde ruhest du auch. Clearly some kind of password, for sane men don't talk about little birds in that kind of situation. It sounded to me like indifferent poetry. Then followed a conversation in low tones, of which I only caught odd phrases.
The big white clouds lay like stepping-stones in the sky's blue river, just as when she was a child. Their silver-gleaming brightness blinded her ... "Über allen Gipfeln ist Ruh ... warte nur ... balde ... ruhest ... du ..." she began to murmur, and stopped, awed by the immensity of the hush about her.
Warte nur, balde Ruhest Du auch. The doctor was very late. Rachel, who was going to the Watch Service, waited for the Bishop in the hall till he came out of his study with the curate, who had doubts. When the young man had left, Rachel said, hesitating: "I shall not go to the service if Dr. Brown does not arrive before then. Hugh was to have come with us.
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