"Ev'n the Styx, which ninefold her infoldeth
Hems not Ceres' daughter in its flow;
But she grasps the apple--ever holdeth
Her, sad Orcus, down below."
SCHILLER, Das Ideal und das Leben.

Ever as I sang, the veil was uplifted; ever as I sang, the signs of life
grew; till, when the eyes dawned upon me, it was with that sunrise of
splendour which my feeble song attempted to re-imbody.

The wonder is, that I was not altogether overcome, but was able to
complete my song as the unseen veil continued to rise. This ability came
solely from the state of mental elevation in which I found myself. Only
because uplifted in song, was I able to endure the blaze of the dawn.

But I cannot tell whether she looked more of statue or more of woman;
she seemed removed into that region of phantasy where all is intensely
vivid, but nothing clearly defined. At last, as I sang of her descending
hair, the glow of soul faded away, like a dying sunset. A lamp within
had been extinguished, and the house of life shone blank in a winter
morn. She was a statue once more--but visible, and that was much gained.
Yet the revulsion from hope and fruition was such, that, unable to
restrain myself, I sprang to her, and, in defiance of the law of the
place, flung my arms around her, as if I would tear her from the grasp
of a visible Death, and lifted her from the pedestal down to my heart.