III.

--Digging thine heart and throwing Away its childhood's gold, That so its woman-depth might hold His spirit's overflowing? (For surging souls, no worlds can bound, Their channel in the heart have found.)

O child, to change appointed, Thou hadst not second sight! What eyes the future view aright Unless by tears anointed? Yea, only tears themselves can show The burning ones that have to flow.

O woman, deeply loving, Thou hadst not second sight! The star is very high and bright, And none can see it moving. Love looks around, below, above, Yet all his prophecy is--love.

The bird thy childhood's playing Sent onward o'er the sea, Thy dove of hope came back to thee Without a leaf: art laying Its wet cold wing no sun can dry, Still in thy bosom secretly?

Our Goethe's friend, Bettine, I have the second sight! The stone upon his grave is white, The funeral stone between ye; And in thy mirror thou hast viewed Some change as hardly understood.

Where's childhood? where is Goethe? The tears are in thine eyes. Nay, thou shalt yet reorganize Thy maidenhood of beauty In his own glory, which is smooth Of wrinkles and sublime in youth.