she asks;


"What if he come,
A cloud, a fire, a whirlwind?"

and then the cry:


"O my God!
This awful joy in mine own heart is love."

Again:


"While you are here the one thing real to me
In all the universe is love."


Exquisitely tender and refined are the love scenes--at the ball and
in the garden--between the dashing prince-lover in search of his
pleasure and the devoted girl with her heart in her eyes, on her
lips, in her hand. Behind them, always like a tragic fate, the
somber figure of the Spagnoletto, and over all the glow and color
and soul of Italy.

In 1881 appeared the translation of Heine's poems and ballads, which
was generally accepted as the best version of that untranslatable
poet. Very curious is the link between that bitter, mocking, cynic