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All day long he had been poring over the score. "'Kennst du das Land wo die Citronen bluhen?" he sang with feeling while he polished the floors.
Often have I shed tears of rapture whilst I beheld it, and listened to the thrush and the nightingale piping forth their melodious songs in the woods, and inhaled the breeze laden with the perfume of the thousand orange gardens of Seville: "Kennst du das land wo die citronem bluhen?"
The Portier below was polishing floors, right foot, left foot, any foot at all. And as he polished he sang in a throaty tenor. "Kennst du das Land wo die Citronen bluhen," he sang at the top of his voice, and coughed, a bit of floor wax having got into the air. The antlers of the deer from the wild-game shop hung now in his bedroom.
Often have I shed tears of rapture whilst I beheld it, and listened to the thrush and the nightingale piping forth their melodious songs in the woods, and inhaled the breeze laden with the perfume of the thousand orange gardens of Seville. 'Kennst du das land wo die citronen bluhen?"
"Kennst du das Land wo die Citronen blühen," and "Faust" and "Margaret" tell their story to all who have felt life's struggles and temptations, whether they have read them in Goethe's version or not. Added to this power of pathos and sentiment is the deep religious feeling which pervades every work of his pencil, whatever be its outward form.
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