(Ode to Joy)
Thou radiance sprung from God Himself,
Thou daughter of Elysium, Joy,
Thy shrine we tread, Thou Maid Divine,
Though light’s excess our sense destroy.
What harsh world-use has rent apart,
Thy healing spells restore again;
Where’er Thy gentle wings may rest,
Brothers we find our fellow-men.
…
Friedrich Schiller
Beethoven’s 9th, Chorale:
And he composed this when he was STONE DEAF!
https://youtu.be/fzyO3fLV5O0?list=RDfzyO3fLV5O0&t=404
Those Germans do have their days.