For like the shrieking of a soul
     Shut in a tomb, a darkened cry
     Of inward-wailing agony
     Surprised them, and all eyes on each
     Fixed in the mute-appealing speech
     Of self-reproachful apprehension: 
     Knowing not what to think or do: 
     But Joan, recovering first, broke through
     The instantaneous suspension,
     And knelt upon the ground, and guessed
     The bitterness at a glance, and pressed
     Into the comfort of her breast
     The deep-throed quaking shape that drooped
     In misery’s wilful aggravation,
     Before the farmer as he stooped,
     Touched with accusing consternation: 
     Soothing her as she sobbed aloud:-
     ’Not me! not me!  Oh, no, no, no! 
     Not me!  God will not take me in! 
     Nothing can wipe away my sin! 
     I shall not see her:  you will go;
     You and all that she loves so: 
     Not me! not me!  Oh, no, no, no!’
     Colourless, her long black hair,
     Like seaweed in a tempest tossed
     Tangling astray, to Joan’s care
     She yielded like a creature lost: 
     Yielded, drooping toward the ground,
     As doth a shape one half-hour drowned,
     And heaved from sea with mast and spar,
     All dark of its immortal star. 
     And on that tender heart, inured
     To flatter basest grief, and fight
     Despair upon the brink of night,
     She suffered herself to sink, assured
     Of refuge; and her ear inclined
     To comfort; and her thoughts resigned
     To counsel; her wild hair let brush
     From off her weeping brows; and shook
     With many little sobs that took
     Deeper-drawn breaths, till into sighs,
     Long sighs, they sank; and to the ‘hush!’
     Of Joan’s gentle chide, she sought
     Childlike to check them as she ought,
     Looking up at her infantwise. 
     And Willie, gazing on them both,
     Shivered with bliss through blood and brain,
     To see the darling of his troth
     Like a maternal angel strain
     The sinful and the sinless child
     At once on either breast, and there
     In peace and promise reconciled
     Unite them:  nor could Nature’s care
     With subtler sweet beneficence
     Have fed the springs of penitence,
     Still keeping true, though harshly tried,
     The vital prop of human pride.

     Beauty Rohtraut (From Moricke)

     What is the name of King Ringang’s daughter? 
     Rohtraut, Beauty Rohtraut! 
     And what does she do the livelong day,
     Since she dare not knit and spin alway? 
     O hunting and fishing is ever her play! 
     And, heigh! that her huntsman I might be! 
     I’d hunt and fish right merrily! 
     Be silent, heart!