Tannhäuser

A desolate and melancholy wood. Night/all. Heinrich. WE LL, I am lost ! The whistle brings no hound, The horn no hunter ! North and South are mixed In this low twilight and the hanging boughs. I have slept worse than this. Poor Tannhauser ! I met him walking, as in dream, across The courtyard, while behind him skulked that crew That lurked, and itched to kill him, him unarmed, Not daring ! But he reached his hand to me ! " Good luck, old friend ! " and, smiling, he was gone. Gone to the Pope —Great soul to mountebank ! It was her wish, they whisper. Well-a-day ! He's gone, and not a friend have I again. This bank is soft with delicate white moss. No pillow better in broad Germany. Were Madeline but here ! What rustle stirs 135