And then take shape in singing
And come to face of day,
Leaf-thoughts life’s storm is bringing
Down on my brow alway.
And out from springs deep-hidden
With ever newer might
Rush waves of words unbidden
Brought from the gloom to light.
Brought into sight so slowly,
From caverns unbeheld,
Sought for with prayings lowly;
Distinct, and then dispelled.
A thought of light that glideth
Down from the heavenly hall,
Wherever it abideth
Maketh a sunbeam fall.
Of equal radiance, springing
From sunset or sunrise;
Of equal help for singing
Or praying, I comprise.
All thoughts which bright hopes nourish
In this our building—sown
Like spirit-seed to flourish
From its foundation-stone.”
—Translated by Sir Edwin Arnold.
“The quiet valley of Sinaia has quite changed its character, and is now like a colony in the back woods, with wooden huts and wigwams. Twelve to fourteen languages are spoken on the place where the castle is building. The overseer of the works is the Court sculptor, Martin Stohr. His wood-carvings adorn the Castle and the Palace in Bucharest, and remind one of the first period of the Renaissance by their wonderful finish. Upon a great height among the gigantic forests, and on soil belonging to the Prince, is a magnificent stone quarry which furnishes all the stone required for the building of the castle. A small railway leads up to it, and there the Italian workmen have taken up their abode. The building of the line of railway through the Prahova Valley was begun at the same time as that of the castle.”
But the footsteps of the Princess became weary and weak again, till illness once more completely prostrated her. As she lay in bed for months, unable to put her foot to the ground, the Princess, as has already been mentioned, found courage to write down a complete account of the life of her remarkable brother, Prince Otto. Princess Elizabeth was content, in spite of her sufferings, and wrote to her mother on the 28th of November:—“You cannot fancy how grateful I am for the quiet that this winter brings. I have so often said to God in the course of the summer—‘I can no more’—that He has shown that my strength is at an end, and that I must concentrate and recover my powers. No turbulent wave swells into my boudoir, and the restlessness without only feeds the world of thought in my quiet room.”
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