KRIEMHILD. Thou ne'er hast seen them, yet thou know'st their hues?
BRUNHILDA. Of precious stones there is with us no lack—
Though never white or black ones; yet my hands
Have taught me white, and raven is my hair.
KRIEMHILD. Thou canst not know of fragrance!
[She plucks a violet for her.]
BRUNHILDA.
Oh how sweet!
And is't that tiny flower that breathes it forth—
The only one my eye did not observe?
I'd love to give the flower a pretty name—
But surely it is named.
KRIEMHILD.
The little flower
Is lowlier than all, and none thy foot
More easily had crushed, for it appears
To be ashamed that it is more than grass,
And so it hides its head; but yet it drew
A gentle word from thee, the first we've heard.
So let it be a token that within
Our land is much that's hidden from thy gaze
That will delight thee.
BRUNHILDA.
That I hope indeed—
For I need joy! Thou know'st not what it is
To be a woman, yet to overcome
A man in every combat and to gain
His strength that ebbs away as flows his blood,
And from the steaming blood breathe in new force—
To feel yourself grow stronger, braver yet,
And then, when victory is surer still—