SVANHILD.
To another voice, that sings.
Hark! every evening when the sun's at rest,
A little bird floats hither on beating wings,--
See there--it darted from its leafy nest--
And, do you know, it is my faith, as oft
As God makes any songless soul, He sends
A little bird to be her friend of friends,
And sing for ever in her garden-croft.

FALK [picking up a stone].
Then must the owner and the bird be near,
Or its song's squandered on a stranger's ear.

SVANHILD.
Yes, that is true; but I've discovered mine.
Of speech and song I am denied the power,
But when it warbles in its leafy bower,
Poems flow in upon my brain like wine--
Ah, yes,--they fleet--they are not to be won--

[FALK throws the stone. SVANHILD screams.

O God, you've hit it! Ah, what have you done!

[She hurries out to the the right and then
quickly returns.

O pity! pity!