See yonder bird I innocently slew,
Her warbling was Song’s book of books for you.
O, yield your music as she yielded hers!
My life shall be that music set to verse!
Svanhild.
And when you know me, when my songs are flown,
And my last requiem chanted from the bough,—
What then?
Falk [observing her].
What then? Ah well, remember now!