Whene'er I dance: But when I drink the foaming wine cup, Then it grows sad; For it is thirsty, too, the dagger, It thirsts for blood. But for the most part the songs which relate to violence and bloodshed are the expressions of the remorse that follows the crime, and with a touch of the prevailing mysticism in the reproach of natural objects. The water refuses to quench the thirst of the murderer, and the trees to give him shelter, and he wanders on an endless way haunted by the voice of his crime. The poem entitled The Outcast expresses this feeling of mysterious remorse and unending and unavailing expiation. THE OUTCAST. _Go not over the little bridge, It is too old. The trees that have been felled to the earth And the birds that still would perch upon their boughs, Must fly very close to earth._ Why do they ask me, "Is it thou?" Nay, nay, I know of nothing; No one has told me aught, yet all are afraid of me, The stones upon the road shrink from my footsteps, But I am wearier far than if I had trodden them, I am always left alone, and yet I hear voices always; My sleep is never disturbed, and yet I feel As though I had never slept. Know ye why I am weary, so very weary, That if the grave should say to me, "Lie down Here in my lap and rest" I would bless the grave? It is this: I carry one upon my shoulders, I carry him onward ever, and feel his hands About my throat, his breath upon my neck. It is he that makes my step so heavy, And drives me wild, too, with the sound of his voice, It is he that drinks my sleep, And when I ask him, "Whither shall I take thee That I may carry thee no more?" He points to the horizon. He is as heavy as a widow's heart. I know, too, all his thoughts, and his thoughts burn me, Because he thinks upon my sorrow. And when we pass some hut, I say, "Let us linger here awhile, this hut seemeth pleasant to me," But he answers, "Never a hut may open its doors to thee," And when I ask him, "Friend, art thou not yet weary?" He answers, "I? I rest in thy weariness, Refresh myself in thy sweat." Even on my own hearth I can never set him down over against me, He clings to my shoulders always-- I know not even his face. Then I say to him, "Thou unknown one!" And he answers me, "Thou accurst!" _Go not over the little bridge, It is too old. The trees that have been felled lie on the earth And the birds that still would perch upon their boughs Must fly very close to earth._.