SVANHILD.
Yes, that is true; but I’ve discovered mine.
Of speech and song I am denied the power,
But when it warbles in its leafy bower,
Poems flow in upon my brain like wine--
Ah, yes,--they fleet--they are not to be won--
[FALK throws the stone. SVANHILD screams.]
O God, you’ve hit it! Ah, what have you done!
[She hurries out to the the right and then quickly returns.]
O pity! pity!