Death was now lord of life, and at his word Time, vague as air before, new terrors stirred, Throbbing through all things to some unknown close. It seemed the light was never loved before, Now each man said, "Twill go and come no more.' No form, no shadow, but new dearness took Then Memory disclosed her face divine, That like the calm nocturnal lights doth shine And lips that ask a kiss, and dear responsive hand. But chief the sons of Lamech felt the stings The eager thought behind closed portals stand, Buried ere death in silent helplessness. Then while the soul its way with sound can cleave, When we shall lie in darkness silently.' Leo. ARMGART. Various Characters. Ay, my lady, That moment will not come again: applause May come and plenty; but the first, first draught ! We know not pain from pleasure in such joy. Armg.-O, pleasure has cramped dwelling in our And when full being comes must call on pain Armg.-How old are you? Leo. Armg. Threescore and five. That's old. I never thought till now how you have lived. They hardly ever play your music? Leo (raising his eyebrows and throwing out his Schubert too wrote for silence: half his work Armg. Do you think yours will live when you are dead? Leo.-Pfui! The time was, I drank that home brewed wine And found it heady, while my blood was young: Now it scarce warms me. I am sober still, and say: 6 Tipple it as I may, My old friend Leo, Much grain is wasted in the world and rots ; Why not thy handful ?’ Armg. Strange! since I have known you Till now I never wondered how you lived. When I sang well-that was your jubilee. But you were old already. Leo. Yes, child, yes : Youth thinks itself the goal of each old life; Just to be ready for youth's service. It was my chief delight to perfect you. Well! Armg.-Good Leo! You have lived on little joys. But your delight in me is crushed for ever. Your pains, where are they now? They shaped intent Which action frustrates; shaped an inward sense Which is but keen despair, the agony Of highest vision in the lowest pit. The best intent Grasps but a living present which may grow Like any unfledged bird.—Armgart. —0— Sacraments Are not to feed the paupers of the world. -0 Your blessed public Armgart. Had never any judgment in cold blood— What is fame But the benignant strength of One, transformed To joy of Many? Tributes, plaudits come As necessary breathing of such joy, And may they come to me !—Armgart. I hate your epigrams and pointed saws Whose narrow truth is but broad falsity. Armgart. -0 Life is not rounded in an epigram, And saying aught, we leave a world unsaid. The Graf. Truth has rough flavours if we bite it through. The Graf. |