Was this some dream, or was it truth indeed? I cannot bear the words my friend just spake In calm serenity and yet so firm About our separation which must come. Would I might think it was but worldly sense, That sets itself against the spirit's trend, And, like a mirage, stands between us twain. I cannot, and I will not let the words Of warning which Maria spake to me Thus quench the sounding voice of mine own soul Which says 'I love her,' says it night and day. Out of the fountain of my love alone Springs that activity for which I crave. What value hath my impulse to create Or yet my outlook on high spirit-aims If they would rob me of that very light Which can alone irradiate myself? In this illumination must I live, And if it is to be withdrawn from me Then shall my choice be death for evermore. I feel my forces fail me at this hour As soon as I would set myself to think; It must be that I wander o'er a path Whereon her light sheds not its radiant beam. A mist begins to form before mine eyes Which shrouds the marvels o'er, which used to make These woods, these cliffs a glory to mine eyes,-- A fearful dream mounts from abysmal depths-- Which shakes me through and through with fear and dread-- O get thee gone from me;--I yearn to be Alone to dream my individual dreams; In them at least I still can fight and strive To win back that which now seems lost to me. He will not go;--then will I fly from him. (He feels as if he were rooted to the ground.) What are the bonds that hold me prisoner And chain me, as with fetters, to this place? (The Double of Johannes Thomasius appears.) Ah!--whosoe'er thou art; if human blood Doth course within thy veins, or if thou art Some spirit only--leave me and depart. Who is it?--Here some demon brings to me My own self's likeness,--he will not depart;-- It is the picture of my very self And seems to be more powerful than that self.-- DOUBLE: Maria, I do love thee;--beating heart And fevered blood are mine when at thy side. And when thine eye meets mine, my pulse doth thrill With passion's tremor: when thy dearest hand Doth nestle in mine own, my body swoons With rapture and delight. JOHANNES: Thou phantom ghost, Of mist and fog compact, how dost thou dare To utter blasphemy and so malign The purest feelings of my heart. How great A load of guilt must I have laid on me, That I must be compelled to look upon Such lust--befouled distortion of that love That is to me so holy. DOUBLE: