From the narrow desert, O man of pride,
Come into the house, so high and wide.
Hardly knowing what I did, I opened the door. Why had I not done
so before? I do not know.
At first I could see no one; but when I had forced myself past
the tree which grew across the entrance, I saw, seated on the
ground, and leaning against the tree, with her back to my prison,
a beautiful woman. Her countenance seemed known to me, and yet
unknown. She looked at me and smiled, when I made my appearance.
"Ah! were you the prisoner there? I am very glad I have wiled
you out."
"Do you know me then?"
"Do you not know me? But you hurt me, and that, I suppose, makes
it easy for a man to forget. You broke my globe. Yet I thank
you. Perhaps I owe you many thanks for breaking it. I took the
pieces, all black, and wet with crying over them, to the Fairy
Queen. There was no music and no light in them now. But she
took them from me, and laid them aside; and made me go to sleep
in a great hall of white, with black pillars, and many red
curtains. When I woke in the morning, I went to her, hoping to
have my globe again, whole and sound; but she sent me away
without it, and I have not seen it since. Nor do I care for it
now. I have something so much better. I do not need the globe
to play to me; for I can sing. I could not sing at all before.
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