The youth’s voice faltered with emotion and sighing heavily, he pressed his hand to his brow.  Then he seemed to recollect himself and continued in a low, sad tone:  “Here I stand, to tell you for the last time the state of my heart.  You should hear sweet words, but grief and pain will pour bitter drops into everything I say.  I have uttered in the language of poetry, when my heart impelled me, that for which dry prose possesses no power of expression.  Read these pages, Maria, and if they wake an echo in your soul, oh! treasure it.  The honeysuckle in your garden needs a support, that it may grow and put forth flowers; let these poor songs be the espalier around which your memory of the absent one can twine its tendrils and cling lovingly.  Read, oh! read, and then say once more:  ’You are dear to me,’ or send me from you.”

“Give it to me,” said Maria, opening the volume with a throbbing heart.

He stepped back from her, but his breath came quickly and his eyes followed hers while she was reading.  She began with the last poem but one.  It had been written just after Georg’s return the day before, and ran as follows: 

          “Joyously they march along,
          Lights are flashing through the panes,
          In the streets a busy throng
          Curiosity enchains. 
          Oh! the merry festal night;
          Would that it might last for aye! 
          For aye!  Alas!  Love, splendor, light,
          All, all have passed away.”

The last lines Georg had written with a rapid pen the night before.  In them he bewailed his hard fate.  She must hear him once, then he would sing her a peerless song.  Maria had followed the first verses silently with her eyes, but now her lips began to move and in a low, rapid tone, but audibly she read: 

       “Sometimes it echoes like the thunder’s peal,
        Then soft and low through the May night doth steal;
        Sometimes, on joyous wing, to Heaven it soars,
        Sometimes, like Philomel, its woes deplores. 
        For, oh! this a song that ne’er can die,
        It seeks the heart of all humanity. 
        In the deep cavern and the darksome lair,
        The sea of ether o’er the realm of air,
        In every nook my song shall still be heard,
        And all creation, with sad yearning stirred,
        United in a full, exultant choir,
        Pray thee to grant the singer’s fond desire. 
        E’en when the ivy o’er my grave hath grown,
        Still will ring on each sweet, enchanting tone,
        Through the whole world and every earthly zone,
        Resounding on in aeons yet to come.”

Maria read on, her heart beating more and more violently, her breath coming quicker and quicker, and when she had reached the last verse, tears burst from her eyes, and she raised the book with both hands to hurl it from her and throw her arms around the writer’s neck.