Through the forest came wandering Love-- There was budding and blooming at this-- The birds woke to music the grove, And the flowers and the springs felt his kiss; And they sang it and sighed it to Rhine, So the trees knew, and so the sunshine, And the wavelets that whisper and hiss. Through the forest a tempest did roar, Song and Love in its fury it caught, And both to the far sea it bore, Then an end to all blossoms was brought! And silently dreaming glides Rhine, Strings are hushed, and the little birds pine, And twitter of joys come to nought.” --_Translated by Sir Edwin Arnold._ “To publish my own writings,” says the Queen, “would never have entered into my head, had they not passed from one to another and been copied endlessly. So I came to the conclusion at last that if they are worth such tedious work as copying, they were worthy of being printed. Whether my writings are praised or criticised in the world is of as little moment to me as if it did not concern myself. But when I read my poems to others, I am pleased if they produce the impression I desire. This is also a very safe criterion as to their truth and clearness. I should be delighted if my poems were sung without any one knowing whose composition they are.” The Queen now made up her mind to give way to the entreaties of those around her, and to let her poems “Sappho” and “Hammerstein” be privately printed. In 1882 “The Enchantress” appeared, to which a statue of Carl Caner had inspired her. “My fundamental idea,” writes the Queen, “is that purity overcomes passion or the demon, but it costs her her life. It is death to fight against the forces of nature!” The poetess, with her rich fancy, has made the statue seem alive. “Sits upon the splintered summit Swathed in storm, beside a black gulf, Heavenly beautiful, a woman. Wonderful her body’s curves are As she leans upon her hand, Lightly swaying on the crag’s edge, One knee rests across the other, Balanced one limb back is folded: In her hand she grasps a serpent, Careless how the creature struggles, Twines and bends and shoots its tongue forth, Helpless that white grip to loosen, Helpless to escape those fingers. Red her hair is; like to flame-tongues Ruddy ’mid the storm it swayeth, Floats unto the clouds, and catches The forked lightning as it falls, Drawing through its threads the flashes Which glide down that woman’s body, And, beneath her, splits a pine tree From the topmost bough to root. And the eyes of that fair woman-- In the lurid light which blazes Bright from stem to stem--do glitter Green, beneath great brows of black. * * * * * Gladsome-looking, head high-lifted, Up that crag a young man marches; Strength and peace are on his visage, In his blue eyes innocence.”