Hardly dimmed in mood, it turns suddenly into a phase of languorous passion, in rich setting of pulsing harp, where now the later figures, all but the blissful theme, vanish before an ardent song of the wondering phrase.  The motive of passionate desire rises and falls, and soars in a path of “endless melody,” returning on its own line of flight, playing as if with its shadow, catching its own echo in the ecstasy of chase.  And every verse ends with a new stress of the insistent upward stride, that grows ever in force and closes with big reverberating blasts.  The theme of the vision joins almost in rough guise of utmost speed, and the rude marching song breaks in; somehow, though they add to the maze, they do not dispel the joy.  The ruling phase of passion now rumbles fiercely in lowest depths.  The theme of beauty rings in clarion wind and strings, and now the whole strife ends in clearest, overwhelming hymn of triumphant gladness, all in the strides of the old wondering, striving phrase.

[Music]

The whole battle here is won.  Though former moments are fought through again (and new melodies grow out of the old plaint), the triumphant shout is near and returns (ever from a fresh tonal quarter) to chase away the doubt and fear.  All the former phrases sing anew, merging the tale of their strife in the recurring verse of united paean.  The song at last dies away, breaking like setting sun into glinting rays of celestial hue, that pale away into dullest murmur.

Still one returning paroxysm, of wild striving for eluding bliss, and then comes the close.  From lowest depths shadowy tones sing herald phrases against dim, distorted figures of the theme of beauty,—­that lead to a soft song of the triumphant hymn, tranquillo, in gentlest whisper, but with all the sense of gladness and ever bolder straying of the enchanting dream.  After a final climax the song ends in slow vanishing echoes.

The poet Ritter is said to have added, after the production of the music, the poem printed on the score, of which the following is a rather literal translation: 

    In the miserable chamber,
    Dim with flick’ring candlelight,
    Lies a man on bed of sickness. 
    Fiercely but a moment past
    Did he wage with Death the battle;
    Worn he sinks back into sleep. 
    Save the clock’s persistent ticking
    Not a sound invades the room,
    Where the gruesome quiet warns us
    Of the neighborhood of Death. 
    O’er the pale, distended features
    Plays a melancholy smile. 
    Is he dreaming at life’s border
    Of his childhood golden days?

    But a paltry shrift of sleep
    Death begrudges to his victim. 
    Cruelly he wakes and shakes him,
    And the fight begins anew,—­
    Throb of life and power of death,
    And the horror of the struggle. 
    Neither wins the victory. 
    Once again the stillness reigns.