Amid earth’s motley, Gaia’s cap and bells,
This too material, too unreal life,
Sing, sing the crown of tender miracles,
The pure true wife!
Sing not of love, the unutterable one,
The love divine that Mary has to men.
Seek not the winepress and the rising sun
Beyond thy ken!
Tannhäuser (aside).
Who is this man that reads my inmost thought?