THE POET. I know then what dreaming is—But what is poetry?
THE DAUGHTER. Not reality, but more than reality—not dreaming, but daylight dreams——
THE POET. And the man-children think that we poets are only playing—that we invent and make believe.
THE DAUGHTER. And fortunate it is, my friend, for otherwise the world would lie fallow for lack of ministration. Everybody would be stretched on his back, staring into the sky. Nobody would be touching plough or spade, hammer or plane.
THE POET. And you say this, Indra's daughter, you who belong in part up there——
THE DAUGHTER. You do right in reproaching me. Too long have I stayed down here taking mud baths like you—My thoughts have lost their power of flight; there is clay on their wings—mire on their feet—and I myself—[raising her arms] I sink, I sink—Help me, father, Lord of the Heavens! [Silence] I can no longer hear his answer. The ether no longer carries the sound from his lips to my ear's shell the silvery thread has snapped—Woe is me, I am earthbound!
THE POET. Do you mean to ascend—soon?
THE DAUGHTER. As soon as I have consigned this mortal shape to the flames—for even the waters of the ocean cannot cleanse me. Why do you question me thus?
THE POET. Because I have a prayer——
THE DAUGHTER. What kind of prayer?