of a great night of love.

LUCINDA

Thus does the woman's heart in my ardent breast feel, when I am
allowed to be as I am. It longs only for your longing, and is peaceful
where you find peace.

DALLYINGS OF THE FANTASY

Life itself, the delicate child of the gods, is crowded out by the
hard, loud preparations for living, and is pitifully stifled in the
loving embrace of apelike Care.

To have purposes, to carry out purposes, to interweave purposes
artfully with purposes for a purpose: this habit is so deeply rooted
in the foolish nature of godlike man, that if once he wishes to move
freely, without any purpose, on the inner stream of ever-flowing
images and feelings, he must actually resolve to do it and make it a
set purpose.

It is the acme of intelligence to keep silent from choice, to
surrender the soul to the fantasy, and not to disturb the sweet
dallyings of the young mother with her child. But rarely is the mind
so intelligent after the golden age of its innocence. It would fain
possess the soul alone; and even when she supposes herself alone with
her natural love, the understanding listens furtively and substitutes
for the holy child's-play mere memories of former purposes or
prospects of new ones. Yes, it even continues to give to the hollow,
cold illusions a tinge of color and a fleeting heat; and thus by its
imitative skill it tries to steal from the innocent fantasy its very
innermost being.

But the youthful soul does not allow itself to be cheated by the
cunning of the prematurely old Understanding, and is always watching
while its darling plays with the beautiful pictures of the beautiful
world. Willingly she allows her brow to be adorned with the wreaths
which the child plaits from the blossoms of life, and willingly she
sinks into waking slumber, dreaming of the music of love, hearing the
friendly and mysterious voices of the gods, like the separate sounds
of a distant romance.

Old, well-known feelings make music from the depths of the past and
the future. They touch the listening spirit but lightly, and quickly
lose themselves in the background of hushed music and dim love. Every
one lives and loves, complains and rejoices, in beautiful confusion.
Here at a noisy feast the lips of all the joyful guests open in
general song, and there the lonely maiden becomes mute in the presence
of the friend in whom she would fain confide, and with smiling mouth
refuses the kiss. Thoughtfully I strew fl