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112 Gerhart Hauptmann
Then, go your way! Farewell! My task is done.
The hemlock of your sin no man may hope
To rid your soul of. May God pity you!
But this remember! There s a word named rue!
And some day, some day, as your dreams you dream,
A sudden arrow, shot from out the blue,
Shall pierce your breast! And yet you shall not die,
Nor shall you live. In that dread day you ll curse
All you now cherish God, the world, your work,
Your wretched self you ll curse. Then . . . think of
me!
That bell shall ring again! Then think of me!
Barely does Helnrich escape the deadly clutch
of outlived creeds, superstitions, and conventions
embodied in the Ficar, than he is in the throes of
other foes who conspire his doom.
Nature herself has decreed the death of Hem-
rich. For has not man turned his back upon her,
has he not cast her off, scorned her beneficial of
ferings, robbed her of her beauty, devastated her
charms and betrayed her trust all for the
ephemeral glow of artifice and sham? Hence
Nature, too, is Heinrich s foe. Thus the Spirit
of the Earth, with all its passions and lusts, sym
bolized in the Wood Sprite, and gross materialism
in the person of the Nickelmann, drive the in
truder back.
The Wood Sprite.
He crowds us from our hills. He hacks and hews,
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