Wild, troubled joy! And who shall know, my child,
It is not happiness? Why, our own hearts
Will keep the secret close! Joy, joy! if but
To leave this desolate city, with its dull
Slow knells and dirges, and to breathe again
Th’ untainted mountain-air!—But hush! the trees,
The flowers, the waters, must hear naught of this!
They are full of voices, and will whisper things——
—We’ll speak of it no more.
Xim. O pitying heaven!