And ah! his kiss. 
      My heart is heavy,
    My peace is o’er,
    I never—­ah! never—­
    Shall find it more. 
      My bosom yearns
    To behold him again. 
    Ah, could I find him
    That best of men! 
    I’d tell him then
    How I did miss him,
    And kiss him
    As much as I could,
    Die on his kisses
    I surely should!

      MARTHA’S GARDEN.

      MARGARET.  FAUST.

Margaret.  Promise me, Henry.

Faust.  What I can.

Margaret.  How is it now with thy religion, say? 
I know thou art a dear good man,
But fear thy thoughts do not run much that way.

Faust.  Leave that, my child!  Enough, thou hast my heart; For those I love with life I’d freely part; I would not harm a soul, nor of its faith bereave it.

Margaret.  That’s wrong, there’s one true faith—­one must believe it?

Faust.  Must one?

Margaret.  Ah, could I influence thee, dearest!  The holy sacraments thou scarce reverest.

Faust.  I honor them.

Margaret.  But yet without desire.  Of mass and confession both thou’st long begun to tire.  Believest thou in God?

Faust.  My. darling, who engages
To say, I do believe in God? 
The question put to priests or sages: 
Their answer seems as if it sought
To mock the asker.

Margaret.  Then believ’st thou not?

Faust.  Sweet face, do not misunderstand my thought! 
Who dares express him? 
And who confess him,
Saying, I do believe? 
A man’s heart bearing,
What man has the daring
To say:  I acknowledge him not? 
The All-enfolder,
The All-upholder,
Enfolds, upholds He not
Thee, me, Himself? 
Upsprings not Heaven’s blue arch high o’er thee? 
Underneath thee does not earth stand fast? 
See’st thou not, nightly climbing,
Tenderly glancing eternal stars? 
Am I not gazing eye to eye on thee? 
Through brain and bosom
Throngs not all life to thee,
Weaving in everlasting mystery
Obscurely, clearly, on all sides of thee? 
Fill with it, to its utmost stretch, thy breast,
And in the consciousness when thou art wholly blest,
Then call it what thou wilt,
Joy!  Heart!  Love!  God! 
I have no name to give it! 
All comes at last to feeling;
Name is but sound and smoke,
Beclouding Heaven’s warm glow.

Margaret.  That is all fine and good, I know; And just as the priest has often spoke, Only with somewhat different phrases.

Faust.  All hearts, too, in all places, Wherever Heaven pours down the day’s broad blessing, Each in its way the truth is confessing; And why not I in mine, too?

Margaret.  Well, all have a way that they incline to, But still there is something wrong with thee; Thou hast no Christianity.