And gaily laughing at the guileless youth,
They rushed into the palace and were gone. 
And Parsifal spake slowly to himself: 
“Was all this nothing but a passing dream?”

But looking whence the other voice had come,
He saw the leafy bower had opened wide,
And on a flowery couch a maiden lay,
More beautiful than heart could ever dream,
Clad in some light gown of Arabian stuff. 
And Parsifal, still standing high aloof,
Spake courteously:  “Didst thou call to me
And name me who am nameless unto all?”

And she replied:  “I named thee, guileless lad,—­
I named thee by thine own name, Parsifal. 
For so thy father Gamuret named thee,
Before he died in that Arabian land,—­
Named thee before thine eyes had seen the light,
Named thee with greeting in his dying breath. 
Here have I waited thee to tell thee all. 
What drew thee here but the desire to know?”

And Parsifal:  “I never saw, nor dreamed,
Such wondrous evil things as here to-day. 
And art thou but another wanton flower
That bloomest in this evil garden here?”

But she:  “O Parsifal, thou foolish heart! 
Surely thou seest I am not as these. 
My home lies far away in distant lands. 
I did but tarry here to wait for thee
And tell thee many things about thyself. 
I knew thee when thou wert a little babe,
Smiling upon thy loving mother’s breast. 
Thy earliest lisp still laugheth in my ear. 
And thy dear widowed mother, sweet Heartsrue,
Although she mourned, smiled also in her joy
When thou wert come, a laughing new-born love. 
Thy cradle was a nest of softest moss,
And her caresses lulled thee to thy sleep. 
She watched thee lovingly through all thy sleep
And waked thee in the morning with her tears
Of mingled love and pain for him who died. 
And that thy life should know no strife of men,
Nor care nor perils as thy sire had known,
Became her only care.  So in the woods
She went with thee to hide in quiet there. 
And there she hoped no evil of the world,
Nor ways of sinful men would come to thee. 
Didst thou not hear her sorrowful lament
When thou didst roam too far or late from home? 
Didst thou not hear her laughter in her joy
When she would give thee welcome home again,—­
When her dear arms were close around thy neck
And her sweet kisses on thy loving lips? 
But thou hast never known what I have known
Of those last days of thy dear mother’s love. 
Thou didst not hear the secret sighs and moans,
And at the last the tempest of her grief,
When after many days thou didst not come,
And not a trace of thee could e’er be found. 
She waited through the weary days and nights,
And then her open tears and cries were stilled,
And secret grief was eating at her life,
Until at last her anguished heart did break,
And thy dear mother, gentle Heartsrue, died.”