And you believed it was the song you sung--!

FALK.
A poet believes all things of himself.

LIND [seriously].
Don't think, however, Falk, that I dismiss
The theologian from my hour of bliss.
Only, I find the Book will not suffice
As Jacob's ladder unto Paradise.
I must into God's world, and seek Him there.
A boundless kindness in my heart upsprings,
I love the straw, I love the creeping things;
They also in my joy shall have a share.

FALK.
Yes, only tell me this, though--

LIND.
I have told it,--
My precious secret, and our three hearts hold it!

FALK.
But have you thought about the future?

LIND.
Thought?
I?--thought about the future? No, from this
Time forth I live but in the hour that is.
In home shall all my happiness be sought;