origin of poetry."

"It is very unfortunate," said Klingsohr, "that poetry has a particular
name, and that poets constitute a particular class. It is not, however,
strange. It arises from the natural action of the human sprit. Does not
every man strive and compose at every moment?"

Just then Matilda entered the room. Klingsohr continued. "Consider
love, for instance. In nothing is the necessity of poetry for the
continuance of humanity so clear as in that. Love is silent; poesy
alone can speak for it. Or rather love itself is nothing but the
highest poetry of nature. Yet I will not tell you of things, with which
you are better acquainted than I."

"Thou art indeed the father of love;" cried Henry, as he threw his arms
around Matilda, and they both kissed his hand.

Klingsohr embraced them and went out.

"Dear Matilda," said Henry after a long kiss, "it seems to me like a
dream, that thou art mine; yet it seems still more wonderful, that thou
hast not been so always."

"It seems to me," said Matilda, "that I knew thee long, long ago."

"Canst thou then love me?"

"I know not what love is; but this can I tell thee, that it is as if I
now first began to live, and that I am so devoted to thee that I would
this instant die for thee."

"My Matilda, now for the first time do I feel what it is to be
immortal."

"Dear Henry, how infinitely good thou art. What a glorious spirit
speaks from thee. I am a poor, insignificant girl."

"How thou dost make me blush! Indeed I am what I am only through thee.
Without thee I were nothing. What were a spirit without a heaven; and
thou art the heaven that upbears and supports me."

"How divinely happy should I be, wert thou as faithful as my father. My
mother died shortly after my birth; yet my father weeps for her every
day."

"I deserve it not, yet may I be happier than he!"

"I would joyfully live long by thy side, dear Henry. Certainly through
thee I should become much better."

"O! Matilda, even death shall not separate us."

"No, Henry, where I am, wilt thou be."

"Yes, where thou art, Matilda, will I forever be."

"I comprehend not the meaning of eternity; yet I fancy that what I
feel, when I think of thee, must constitute eternity."

"Yes, Matilda, we are eternal, because we love each other."

"Thou canst not believe, dearest, how fervently, when we came home
early this morning, I knelt before the image of the holy mother, what
unspeakable things I prayed to