Then, when the body stirs not with the soul,
The last nerve wrested from the Spirit’s rule,
Naught in us left of love, the world unwinds:
Our capturer dissolves in mist or dust:—
And we, for its embrace, have lost our God!”
LI.
His mood alarm’d me, yet could I protest:
“Nay, Haydn, nay! I do not love the world:
I long to leave it; yes, all thought of it.”
“How much less worldliness is found,” he ask’d,