She hushes then in the dusky shadows of her house; a longing eats her heart away for the freedom of the dawn.
Till overcome with pain she strikes her breast against the walls and breaks the cage herself.
With songs and flapping of her wings, from the dusk, called life, she flies away near to the gates of the eternal light.
VIII.
Upon the dark and stormy roads I walk, bare-footed, poor; I onward pass, naked and hungry, through life's cold and night; only one light can brighten there my way and feed my strength,—the light of daring, burning in my breast; it helps me more than stars and more than moons. No sun in heaven can kindle it in me, but I must get it from myself, striking my spirit against the hard experiences of life, that the breast might catch the spark as does dry tinder when the steel strikes the flint.
IX.
With me do I carry the enemy, whether I leave my threshold, or return back to my home.
With me do I bring the traitor, and he is my heart's shadow,—the thunderbolt striking me.
With its storm it will scatter the roof of my dwelling, set fire to my house.
And then suddenly stopping, the sails of my boat will be folded, and down will it sink.