As she sits there, she finds a bundle of old verses. They were copies of old ballads, which her mother used to sing to her when she was little. She untied the string which held them together, and began to read.
She smiled sadly when she had read for a while; the old songs spoke strange wisdom.
Have no faith in happiness, have no faith in the appearance of happiness, have no faith in roses.
“Trust not laughter,” they said. “See, the lovely maiden Valborg drives in a golden coach, and her lips smile, but she is as sorrowful as if hoofs and wheels were passing over her life’s happiness.”
“Trust not the dance,” they said. “Many a foot whirls lightly over polished floor, while the heart is heavy as lead.”
“Trust not the jest,” they said. “Many a one goes to the feast with jesting lips, while she longs to die for pain.”
In what shall one believe? In tears and sorrow!
He who is sorrowful can force himself to smile, but he who is glad cannot weep.
But joy is only sorrow disguised. There is nothing real on earth but sorrow.