No More Learning

Here, Nature! in light dreams, thy airy finger
The inborn angel's features drew!
Here lay the child, when life's fresh heavings
Its tender bosom first made warm,
And here with pure, mysterious weavings
The spirit wrought its godlike form!
And thou! What brought thee here? what power
Stirs in my deepest soul this hour?
What wouldst thou here? What makes thy heart so sore?
Unhappy Faust! I know thee thus no more.
Breathe I a magic atmosphere?
The will to enjoy how strong I felt it,--
And in a dream of love am now all melted!
Are we the sport of every puff of air?
And if she suddenly should enter now,
How would she thy presumptuous folly humble!
Big John-o'dreams!
ah, how wouldst thou
Sink at her feet, collapse and crumble!

_Mephistopheles_. Quick, now! She comes! I'm looking at her.

_Faust_. Away! Away! O cruel fate!

_Mephistopheles_. Here is a box of moderate weight;
I got it somewhere else--no matter!
Just shut it up, here, in the press,
I swear to you, 'twill turn her senses;
I meant the trifles, I confess,
To scale another fair one's fences.
True, child is child and play is play.

_Faust_. Shall I? I know not.