Poems flow in upon my brain like wine—
Ah, yes,—they fleet—they are not to be won—
[Falk throws the stone. Svanhild screams.
O God, you’ve hit it! Ah, what have you done!
[She hurries out to the right and then quickly returns.
O pity! pity!
Falk [in passionate agitation].
No,—but eye for eye,
Svanhild, and tooth for tooth. Now you’ll attend
No further greetings from your garden-friend,