of us there throbbed the joyous faith
And certain hope that future days would teach
Thine hand this art—to pour forth happiness
Into the very fundaments of Being;
That all the wonders of thy spirit’s search
Unfolding visibly Creation’s powers
Through every creature of thine art would pour
Soul rapture deep into the hearts of men.
Such were our dreams through all those days of yore
That to thy skill, mirrored in beauty’s guise,
The weal of future men would trace its source.
So dreamed mine own soul of the goal of thine.
Yet now the vital spark of fashioning fire
That burned within thee seems extinct and dead.
Dead thy creative joy: and well-nigh maimed
The hand, which once with fresh and youthful strength
Guided thy steadfast brush from year to year.
Johannes:
Alas, ’tis true; I feel as if the fires
That erstwhile quickened in my soul are quenched.
Mine eye, grown dull, doth no more catch the gleam
Shed by the flickering sunlight o’er the earth.
No feeling stirs my heart, when changing moods
Of light and shade flow o’er the scenes around.
Still lies my hand, seeking no more to chain
Into a lasting present fleeting charms,
Shown forth by magic elemental powers
From utmost depths of Life before mine eyes.
No new creative fire thrills me with joy.
For me dull monotone obscures all life.
Maria:
My heart is deeply grieved to hear that thou
Dost find such emptiness in everything
Which thrives as highest good and very source
Of sacred life itself within my heart.
Ah, friend, behind the changing scenes of life
That men call ‘Being,’ true life lies concealed
Spiritual, everlasting, infinite.
And in that life each soul doth weave its thread.
I feel afloat in spirit potencies,
That work, as in an ocean’s unseen depths,
And see revealéd all the life of men,
As wavelets on the ocean’s upturned face.
I am at one with all the sense of Life
For which men restless strive, and which to me
Is but their inner self that stands revealed.
I see, how oftentimes it binds itself
Unto the very kernel of man’s soul,
And lifts him to the highest that his heart
Can ever crave. Yet as it lives in me
It turns to bitter fruitage, when mine own
Touches another’s being. Even so
Hath this, my destiny, worked out in all
I willed to give thee, when thou cam’st in love.
Thy wish it was to travel at my side
Unhesitating all the way, that soon
Should lead thee to a full and perfect art.
Yet what hath happened? All, that in mine eyes
Stood forth revealed in its own naked Truth
As purest life, brought death, my friend, to thee
And slew thy spirit.
Johannes:
And slew thy spirit. Aye. ’Tis so indeed.
What lifts thy soul to Heaven’s sun-kissed heights
When through thy life it comes into mine own
Thrusts my soul down, to death’s abysmal gloom.
When in our friendship’s rosy-fingered dawn
To this revealment thou didst lead me on,
Which sheds its light into the darkened realms,
Where human souls do enter every night,
Bereft of conscious life, and where full oft
Man’s being wanders erring: whilst the night
Of Death makes mock at Life’s reality.
And when thou didst reveal to me the truth
Of life’s return, then did I know full well
That I should grow to perfect spirit-man.
Surely, it seemed, the artist’s clear keen eye,
And certain touch of a creator’s hand,
Would blossom for me through thy spirit’s fire
And noble might. Full deep I breathed this fire
Into my being; when—behold—it robbed
The ebb and flow of all my spirit’s power.
Remorselessly it drove out from my heart
All faith in this our world. And now I reach
A point where I no longer clearly see,
Whether to doubt or whether to believe
The
