As soon as one was
worked out of the mass, he bounded off a few paces, and then,
with a somersault and a run, threw himself gyrating into the air,
and descended with all his weight on the summit of the heaving
and struggling chaos of fantastic figures. I left them still
busy at this fierce and apparently aimless amusement. And as I
went, I sang--
If a nobler waits for thee,
I will weep aside;
It is well that thou should'st be,
Of the nobler, bride.
For if love builds up the home,
Where the heart is free,
Homeless yet the heart must roam,
That has not found thee.
One must suffer: I, for her
Yield in her my part
Take her, thou art worthier--
Still I be still, my heart!
Gift ungotten! largess high
Of a frustrate will!
But to yield it lovingly
Is a something still.
Then a little song arose of itself in my soul; and I felt for the
moment, while it sank sadly within me, as if I was once more
walking up and down the white hall of Phantasy in the Fairy
Palace. But this lasted no longer than the song; as will be
seen.
Do not vex thy violet
Perfume to afford:
Else no odour thou wilt get
From its little hoard.
In thy lady's gracious eyes
Look not thou too long;
Else from them the glory flies,
And thou dost her wrong.
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