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Alas, that the rosy dawn came too early to me: she glowed me awake, the jealous one! Jealous is she always of the glows of my morning-dream. Measurable by him who hath time, weighable by a good weigher, attainable by strong pinions, divinable by divine nut-crackers: thus did my dream find the world:
Sachs suggests as the name of the new-born: Song of Interpretation of the Blissful Morning-Dream, and the young godmother is requested to speak appropriate words over it. The point of what follows is hardly in Eva's words, pretty as they are; the point is that one of the most extraordinary quintets that ever charmed human ear serves as baptismal send-off to the infant melody.
Before the last note has died, all are clamouring together, awarding to Walther the master-prize. "Reach him the wreath! There is no lover or singer like him!" And then Walther's exquisite morning-dream comes true.
But when she reached the gate herself, she saw her standing over a boy asleep on the grass of the opposite bank. Abdiel, lying on his bosom, watched her with keen friendly eyes. Clare was dreaming some agreeable morning-dream; for a smile of such pleasure as could haunt only an innocent face, nickered on it like a sunny ripple on the still water of a pool.
Freed at last is my nose from the smell of all human hubbub! With sharp breezes tickled, as with sparkling wine, SNEEZETH my soul sneezeth, and shouteth self-congratulatingly: "Health to thee!" Thus spake Zarathustra. In my dream, in my last morning-dream, I stood to-day on a promontory beyond the world; I held a pair of scales, and WEIGHED the world.
Not riddle enough to scare human love from it, not solution enough to put to sleep human wisdom: a humanly good thing was the world to me to-day, of which such bad things are said! How I thank my morning-dream that I thus at to-day's dawn, weighed the world! As a humanly good thing did it come unto me, this dream and heart-comforter!
The gods their days forever spend In banquets bright that have no end, In one voluptuous morning-dream, And quaff the nectar's golden stream. Enthroned in awful majesty Kronion wields the bolt on high: In abject fear Olympus rocks When wrathfully he shakes his locks.
France had been sufficiently bled, and had suffered enough for these three words; it was now to rest under the shadow of legal order and of severe discipline, after its golden morning-dream of youth's enchanting hopes.
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