No More Learning

Fill with it, to its utmost stretch, thy breast,
And in the consciousness when thou art wholly blest,
Then call it what thou wilt,
Joy! Heart! Love! God!
I have no name to give it!
All comes at last to feeling;
Name is but sound and smoke,
Beclouding Heaven's warm glow.

_Margaret_. That is all fine and good, I know;
And just as the priest has often spoke,
Only with somewhat different phrases.

_Faust_. All hearts, too, in all places,
Wherever Heaven pours down the day's broad blessing,
Each in its way the truth is confessing;
And why not I in mine, too?

_Margaret_. Well, all have a way that they incline to,
But still there is something wrong with thee;
Thou hast no Christianity.

_Faust_. Dear child!

_Margaret_.
It long has troubled me
That thou shouldst keep such company.

_Faust_. How so?

_Margaret_. The man whom thou for crony hast,
Is one whom I with all my soul detest.
Nothing in all my life has ever
Stirred up in my heart such a deep disfavor
As the ugly face that man has got.

_Faust_. Sweet plaything; fear him not!

_Margaret_. His presence stirs my blood, I own.
I can love almost all men I've ever known;
But much as thy presence with pleasure thrills me,
That man with a secret horror fills me.
And then for a knave I've suspected him long!
God pardon me, if I do him wrong!

_Faust_. To make up a world such odd sticks are needed.

_Margaret_.