es. Turning them over he read a little
here and there for a time, then placing Reginchen's almost untasted
glass of wine before him, he sat down, and occasionally taking a sip
from the glass, began to write a poem.

[Illustration: Reginchen and Balder.]

About an hour elapsed in this manner. His delicate, almost girlish
features grew brighter; from time to time, with an eager gesture, he
tossed back his thick fair hair, gazed out at the sun-gilded top of the
acacia-tree and up at the patch of blue sky, that peered in upon him
over the old roof. Happiness, repose, and a divine cheerfulness beamed,
the longer he wrote, on brow and cheeks.

They say I am ill. And it well may be;
Yet I feel no sorrow, from pain am free.
The current of life flowing swiftly on
In sunlight I see,
And sit on the shore, where the flowers bloom.

Oh! murmur of waves, soft breeze that blesses,
Air, water, light,--how sweet your caresses!
Do you not beckon to me from the boat,
Child with gold tresses?
Ah! yes, she beckons--and onward will float!

If ye fade from sight,
Oh! star-like eyes,
And bereft of light,
Vain are my sighs,
Joy's radiant glow
E'en 'mid my woe
Will aye remain.

Oh! blessed sun
Of love and purity,
Glad soul, from guile so free,
How bright thy rays!
My flower of life unfolds to thee--
Thou dost not dream--how short its days!

Again, for a short time, he rested, employing his pen meanwhile by
sketching a framework of flowers and vines for the verses; he had
written the stanzas without a single erasure or the alteration of a
rhyme. This was no art-exercise which he pursued in order to fancy
himself a poet, (on the contrary, he declared that the real poet was
Edwin, only that he was too proud to let his light shine); it was only
a kind of soliloquy, and by writing down these improvisations, instead
of merely murmuring them to himself, he simply increased and prolonged
his solitary pleasure. He always carried in his own pocket the key of
the drawer where he kept the papers, and even Edw