And most to that poor pale Elizabeth—
Were it not only that the selflessness
That fills me now, forbids the personal,
Casts out the individual, and weeps on
For the united sorrow of all things.
For if I die, it is not Tannhäuser,
Rather a spark of the supreme white light
That dwelt and flickered in him in old time;
That Light, I say, that hides its flame awhile
To shine more fully—to redeem the world!