Ha! dost thou know what 'twould mean
How shouldst thou,
Maid unloving and cold!
Much is Walhall's rapture,
Much is the fame of the Gods;
More is my ring.
One glance at its shining gold,
One flash of its sacred fire
Is more precious
Than bliss of all the Gods
Enduring for aye!
For Siegfried's dear love
Shines from it bright and blessèd.
Love of Siegfried!
Ah, could I but utter the rapture
Bound up in the ring!
Go back to the holy
Council of Gods;
Repeat what I have told thee
Of my ring:
That love I will not forswear,
Of love they never shall rob me;
Sooner shall Walhall's glory
Perish and pass!
"The ring upon thy hand—
... ah, be implored!
For Wotan fling it away!"
See p. 129.
WALTRAUTE
This is thy faith, then?
To her sorrow
Thus coldly thou leavest thy sister?
BRÜNNHILDE