The fundamental error could not have been defined more clearly. According to this theory, poetry is not the expression of life and its deeds; no, life and its deeds have poetry as their _origin_. Poetry creates life. Undoubtedly there is poetry of which this may be true; but if there be any one kind of poetry of which it could never be true, it is the kind under consideration. To what possible deed could it incite? To the changing of one's self into a singing tree or a golden ram? There is no question of action in it at all, only of longing. All the best of Novalis's work is simply an expression of this longing, which includes every desire, from the purely natural ones to the most transcendental aspiration. Perhaps the most beautiful things he has written are two songs--the one giving expression to the sensuous longings of the young girl, the other to the longing which is part and parcel of the enthusiastic friendship of young men. The song in which the young girls complain of the hardships of their lot is charming. Here the "blue flower" is simply the forbidden fruit. But the longing is expressed with bewitching roguishness. In the poem "To a Friend," again, we have it expressed with fervency and solemnity:-- "Was passt, das muss sich ründen, Was sich versteht, sich finden, Was gut ist, sich verbinden, Was liebt, zusammen sein, Was hindert, muss entweichen, Was krumm ist, muss sich gleichen, Was fern ist, sich erreichen, Was keimt, das muss gedeihn. "Gieb treulich mir die Hände, Sei Bruder mir und wende Den Blick vor Deinem Ende Nicht wieder weg von mir. Ein Tempel, wo wir knieen, Ein Ort, wohin wir ziehen, Ein Glück, für das wir glühen, Ein Himmel mir und Dir!" The longing here is almost that of the Crusader--a seeking in the far distance for something great and glorious. The "blue flower" melts into the blue of the horizon. Its very colour betokens distance.