Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - Amor Vincit Omnia
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and milk? They are dead. Dead is Bel, the powerful
warrior, and Thoth, the hawk-headed champion;
dead are the glorious ones that rested on the
cloud-beds of Olympus, so too the deedful ones who dwelt
within the walls of Valhalla. All the old gods are
dead save Eros alone, Eros, the all-conquering.
His work is in all that we see. He maintains the
race. Behold him everywhere! Where can you go and
not find the print of his foot? Has your ear
distinguished aught in which the hum of his wings is
not the key-note? He lives in the heart of man and
in the slumbering seed-grain. Mark with awe his
presence in inanimate things!
What is there that does not throb with his life?
What that does not feel his power? All the gods
of vengeance will fall, all the powers of hate and
violence; butthou, O Love, art eternal.
Alone in the cavaliers’ wing sat old Uncle
Eberhard at his writing-desk—a fine piece of furniture
with a hundred drawers and a marble top, with
mountings of burnished brass—working with zeal
and diligence.
Oh, Eberhard, why have you not wandered in field
and wood these last days of the waning summer like
the other cavaliers? Those who worship the goddess
of wisdom pay the penalty. At sixty your back is
bent, the hair that covers your pate is not your own,
many and deep are the furrows on your brow, which
juts over hollow sockets, and the marks of age
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