'Still whirls my brain when I recall
The mountain-lake maid Filuméne,
With gipsy-brown face and coal-black hair,
Each tooth like an ivory grain.
'But bepitched and besulphured is every land,
Without friends and song and love,
And shaken with fever, and all burned out,
From the foreign realms I rove.'
The priest of Assmanshausen spoke:
'Tis well, oh penitent soul;