The beautiful should be, that it may share
     The splendor of the light without its heat;
     For else the sun of life must soon dissolve
     The hard, cold, shining pearls to liquid tears;
     And tears—­flow fast away.

     [She breathes on the window.]

     Become transparent, thou fair Asdolf flower,
     That I may look into the vale beneath! 
     There lies the city,—­Asdolf’s capital: 
     How wondrously the spotless vest of snow
     On roof, on mount, on market-place now smiles
     A glittering welcome to the morning sun,
     Whose blood-red beams shed beauty on the earth! 
     The Bride of Sacrifice makes no lament,
     But smiles in silence,—­knowing sadly well
     That she is slighted, and that he, who could
     Call forth her spring, doth not, but rather dwells
     In other climes, where lavishly he pours
     His fond embracing beams, while she, alas! 
     In wintry shade and lengthened loneliness
     Cold on the solitary couch reclines.—­

     [After a pause.]

     What countless paths wind down, from divers points,
     To yonder city gates!—­Oh, wilt not thou,
     My star, appear to me on one of them? 
     Whate’er I said,—­thou art my worshiped sun. 
     Then pardon me;—­thou art not cold; oh, no! 
     Too warm, too glowing warm, art thou for me.

     Yet thus it is!  Thy being’s music has
     A thousand chords with thousand varying tones,
     Whilst I but one poor sound can offer thee
     Of tenderness and truth.  At times, indeed,
     This too may have its power,—­but then it lasts
     One and the same forever, sounding still
     Unalterably like itself alone;
     A wordless prayer to God for what we love,
     ’Tis more a whisper than a sound, and charms
     Like new-mown meadows, when the grass exhales
     Sweet fragrance to the foot that tramples it.

     Kings, heroes, towering spirits among men,
     Rush to their aim on wild and stormy wings,
     And far beneath them view the world, whose form
     For ever varies on from hour to hour. 
     What would they ask of love?  That, volatile,
     In changeful freshness it may charm their ears
     With proud, triumphant songs, when high in air
     Victorious banners wave; or sweetly lull
     To rapturous repose, when round them roars
     The awful thunder’s everlasting voice!

     Mute, mean, and spiritless to them must seem
     The maid who is no more than woman.  How
     Should she o’er-sound the storm their wings have raised?

     [Sitting down.]

     Great Lord! how lonely I become within
     These now uncheerful towers!  O’er all the earth
     No shield have I,—­no mutual feeling left! 
     Tis true that those around me all are kind,
     And well I know they