Wilt thou not thank me?
SIEGFRIED.
Nay, what dost thou mean?
KRIEMHILD.
But look at me!
SIEGFRIED. That thou art living, smiling,
I give thee thanks, and that thine eyes are blue—
I love not black—
KRIEMHILD.
Thou dost but praise the Lord
In his handmaiden! Did I make myself,
Thou simple fellow? Did I choose the eyes
Thou dost admire?
SIEGFRIED.
Yet love, methinks, might dream
E'en such strange fancies! One fair morn in May
When all things glistened as they glisten now,
Two crystal dewdrops, clearer than the rest,
Were hanging on the harebells bluest spray;
And thou hast stolen them, and evermore
All heaven's in thine eyes.