with
it, amid its roaring. The roar is like that of the hurricane, when it
fiercely lashes the foaming waves, which, like black giants with white
heads, rise up for the furious combat. But through the wild tumult he
hears Clara's voice: "Can you not, then, see me? Coppelius has
deceived you. Those, indeed, were not my eyes, which so burned in your
breast--they were glowing drops of your own heart's blood. I have my
eyes still--only look at them!" Nathaniel reflects: "That is Clara,
and I am hers for ever!" Then it seems to him as though thought
forcibly entered the fiery circle, which stands still, while the noise
dully ceases in the dark abyss. Nathaniel looks into Clara's eyes, but
it is only death that, with Clara's eyes, kindly looks on him.

While Nathaniel composed this poem he was very calm and collected; he
polished and improved every line, and having subjected himself to the
fetters of metre, he did not rest till all was correct and melodious.
When at last he had finished and read the poem aloud to himself, a wild
horror seized him, and he cried out: "Whose horrible voice is that?"
Soon, however, the whole appeared to him a very successful work, and he
felt that it must inflame Clara's cold temperament, although he did not
clearly consider for what Clara was to be excited, nor what purpose it
would answer to torment her with the frightful images which threatened
a horrible destiny, destructive to their love. Both of them--that is
to say Nathaniel and Clara--were sitting in their mother's little
garden, Clara very cheerful, because Nathaniel, during the three days
in which he had been writing his poem, had not teased her with his
dreams and his forebodings. Even Nathaniel spoke livelily and joyfully
about pleasant matters, as he used to do formerly, so that Clara said:
"Now for the first time I have you again! Do you not see that we have
driven away the ugly Coppelius?" Then it first struck Nathaniel that
he had in his pocket the poem, which he had intended to read. He at
once drew the sheets out and began, while Clara, expecting something
tedious as usual, resigned herself and began quietly to knit. But as
the dark cloud rose ever blacker and blacker, she let the stocking fall
and looked full into his face. He was carried along unceasingly by his
poem, an internal fire deeply reddened his cheeks, tears flowed from
his eyes. At last when he had concluded, he groaned in a state of
utter exhaustion