He listened till the sound of her quick steps died away below, then a shadow of sorrowful thought flitted over his face. He went to a drawer that was constructed in the lower part of his turning-lathe, and unlocking it, took out a portfolio containing scattered leaves which seemed to be covered with verses. Turning them over he read a little here and there for a time, then placing Reginchen's almost untasted glass of wine before him, he sat down, and occasionally taking a sip from the glass, began to write a poem. [Illustration: Reginchen and Balder.] About an hour elapsed in this manner. His delicate, almost girlish features grew brighter; from time to time, with an eager gesture, he tossed back his thick fair hair, gazed out at the sun-gilded top of the acacia-tree and up at the patch of blue sky, that peered in upon him over the old roof. Happiness, repose, and a divine cheerfulness beamed, the longer he wrote, on brow and cheeks. They say I am ill. And it well may be; Yet I feel no sorrow, from pain am free. The current of life flowing swiftly on In sunlight I see, And sit on the shore, where the flowers bloom. Oh! murmur of waves, soft breeze that blesses, Air, water, light,--how sweet your caresses! Do you not beckon to me from the boat, Child with gold tresses? Ah! yes, she beckons--and onward will float! If ye fade from sight, Oh! star-like eyes, And bereft of light, Vain are my sighs, Joy's radiant glow E'en 'mid my woe Will aye remain. Oh! blessed sun Of love and purity, Glad soul, from guile so free, How bright thy rays! My flower of life unfolds to thee-- Thou dost not dream--how short its days! Again, for a short time, he rested, employing his pen meanwhile by sketching a framework of flowers and vines for the verses; he had written the stanzas without a single erasure or the alteration of a rhyme. This was no art-exercise which he pursued in order to fancy himself a poet, (on the contrary, he declared that the real poet was Edwin, only that he was too proud to let his light shine); it was only a kind of soliloquy, and by writing down these improvisations, instead of merely murmuring them to himself, he simply increased and prolonged his solitary pleasure. He always carried in his own pocket the key of the drawer where he kept the papers, and even Edwin, from whom he usually had no secrets, was not permitted to touch this hidden treasure. He now took another sheet, and wrote the following lines:--