Maybe in this I still am self-deceived,
Merely the fool swelled up with bitter words,
Imagination, and the toadstool growth,
Thought, wounded; as a scorpion to sting
Its own bruised life out. This is Tannhäuser!
How long ago since he took pleasure in
Such love— [A horn winds.
such music as yon horn below—
[A chant is heard.
Such worship as the simple chant that steals