dear Reginchen; I hear your brother's voice down stairs. When wearied with pleasure you lie down to rest to-night, remember that some one less light-footed than you, rejoices that you came into the world eighteen years ago to-day."
In spite of the warning that she must go, he held her hand so firmly that her blush grew deeper and deeper. Suddenly, with a quick turn of the wrist she broke away from him, and hastily collecting the dishes, said: "I will bring you a bouquet of cornflowers, if they are still in bloom. Good-bye, Herr Walter, and thank you again for your beautiful present. My mother is right: you are the best man in the whole world."
With these words she ran out of the door.
He listened till the sound of her quick steps died away below, then a shadow of sorrowful thought flitted over his face. He went to a drawer that was constructed in the lower part of his turning-lathe, and unlocking it, took out a portfolio containing scattered leaves which seemed to be covered with verses. Turning them over he read a little here and there for a time, then placing Reginchen's almost untasted glass of wine before him, he sat down, and occasionally taking a sip from the glass, began to write a poem.
About an hour elapsed in this manner. His delicate, almost girlish features grew brighter; from time to time, with an eager gesture, he tossed back his thick fair hair, gazed out at the sun-gilded top of the acacia-tree and up at the patch of blue sky, that peered in upon him over the old roof. Happiness, repose, and a divine cheerfulness beamed, the longer he wrote, on brow and cheeks.
They say I am ill. And it well may be;
Yet I feel no sorrow, from pain am free.
The current of life flowing swiftly on
In sunlight I see,
And sit on the shore, where the flowers bloom.
Oh! murmur of waves, soft breeze that blesses,
Air, water, light,—how sweet your caresses!
Do you not beckon to me from the boat,
Child with gold tresses?
Ah! yes, she beckons—and onward will float!
If ye fade from sight,
Oh! star-like eyes,
And bereft of light,
Vain are my sighs,
Joy's radiant glow
E'en 'mid my woe
Will aye remain.
Oh! blessed sun
Of love and purity,
Glad soul, from guile so free,
How bright thy rays!
My flower of life unfolds to thee—
Thou dost not dream—how short its days!
Again, for a short time, he rested, employing his pen meanwhile by sketching a framework of flowers and vines for the verses; he had written the stanzas without a single erasure or the alteration of a rhyme. This was no art-exercise which he pursued in order to fancy himself a poet, (on the contrary, he declared that the real poet was Edwin, only that he was too proud to let his light shine); it was only a kind of soliloquy, and by writing down these improvisations, instead of merely murmuring them to himself, he simply increased and prolonged his solitary pleasure. He always carried in his own pocket the key of the drawer where he kept the papers, and even Edwin, from whom he usually had no secrets, was not permitted to touch this hidden treasure.
He now took another sheet, and wrote the following lines:—
To this lot assigned,
This joy once possessed,
Say, can one so blessed
On earth be sad?
To cool my heart's fire,
By answering love,
To feel the desire,
Man's brother to prove;
Firm in purity,
By beauty inspired,
Ere of life weary
By death required;
The great mystery
Vaguely believing,
Germs of truth in the
Soul's depths perceiving,
Truth-germs unfolding
In the light given,
Joyfully holding
The rain from heaven,
A spark of divine fire
Into the heart hurled,
Kindles with pure desire
A child of the world.
To this lot assigned,
This joy once possessed,
Say, can one so blessed
On earth be sad?
Yet hours may come when the spirit will fail,
Petty cares, like a swarm of flies, assail;
Midst the current of life, with gasping breath,
Waiting I stand, for the summons of death.
Doubting, I question if earth is to me
So grand, so blissful a reality;
Outweighing all the burdens of my life,
My aimless days of fruitless toil and strife.
Sternly denied the brightest joys of earth,
My homely toil no laurel-wreath is worth;
If, wearied of the slowly passing time,
A child should break the clock, would'st call it crime?
O death!—but hark! now a bright footstep nears,
Bright eyes are sparkling, and a glad voice cheers;
My sinking spirit, roused from inward strife,
No longer asketh—Shall I live this life?
He sat still for some time with a smile on his lips, then his face grew graver and he sighed, as if to relieve his oppressed heart and to shake off some thought
