This picture is a marvel unto me And its creator a still greater one. For naught, which men like me have up till now Considered possible, can be compared With this change that hath taken place in thee. One only can believe, when actual sight Compels belief. We met three years ago; And I was then allowed to count myself A member of that small community, In which thou didst attain thine excellence. A man of sad demeanour wast thou then, Witness each glance and aspect of thy face. Once did I hear a lecture in thy group, And at the end felt urged to add thereto Words that were wrenched with pain from out my soul. I spake in such a mood wherein one doth Think almost always of oneself alone; And none the less my gaze did ever rest Upon that painter, whelmed 'neath sorrow's load, Who sat and kept still silence, far apart. Silent he pondered in a fashion strange, And one might well believe that he heard not A single word of all those spoken near. The sorrow unto which he gave himself Seemed of itself to have a separate life; It seemed as though the man himself heard not, But rather that his very grief had ears: It is perhaps not inappropriate To say he was by sorrow quite obsessed. Soon after that day did we meet again, And even then there was a change in thee; For happiness did beam forth from thine eyes; Within thy nature power did dwell again, And noble fire did ring in all thy words. Thou didst express a wish to me that day-- Which seemed to me most strange and curious-- To be my pupil didst thou then desire. And of a truth thou hast throughout these years With utmost diligence absorbed thyself In all I had to say on world events. And, as we grew more intimate, I then Did know the riddle of thine artist life, And each new picture proved a fresh surprise. My thought in former days was ill-inclined To soar to worlds beyond the life of sense-- Not that I doubted them--but yet it seemed Presumptuous to draw near with eager mind. But now I must admit that them hast changed My point of view. I hear thee oft repeat That thine artistic skill depends alone Upon the gift to function consciously In other worlds; and that thou canst implant Naught in thy work but what thou hast first seen In spirit worlds: indeed thy works do show How spirit stands revealed in actual life. STRADER: Never so little have I understood Thy speech; for surely in all artists' work The living spirit is thus manifest. How therefore doth thy friend, Thomasius, Differ from other masters in his art? CAPESIUS: