From A Play in VerseBy Hugo Von HofmannsthalTranslated from the German by Harriet Betty Boas.

A harvester I see, and not the last, No, not the last, descending from the hill. There are three more, and there, and there! Have you no end, you never-ending day? How have I dragged the hours away from you, Torn them to shreds and cast them in the flood, As I do now with these poor tattered blooms! How have I coaxed each minute of this day. Each bracelet, and each earring was clasped on, Ta'en off again, then once more tried, until 'Twas thrown aside, exchanged, and others brought— I slowly dripped the fountain, drop on drop All through my tresses, dried them languidly; With quiet, measured step, out in the sun I walked me to and fro—oh! to and fro! But 'twas still damp—the path is narrow there. I looked among the bushes, for the birds,— Less than a zephyr's breath I bent them back, Those swaying branches, sat 'neath rustling trees, And felt on cheeks and hands in waiting woe The little flickerings of warm sunshine. I closed my eyes, and almost thought soft lips Gently caressing, strayed my clammy brow. Sometimes hours come when this duplicity, All this concealment, seems so fruitless, and I cannot bear it. I can only gaze With eyes of steel far up into the sky Where flocks of wild geese float, or bend me low O'er some mad, rushing plunging waterfall That tears my weakling shadow with its flow,— I will be patient—why, I must, I am!— Madonna—I will climb the steepest mount And on my knees will count me every stone With this, my rosary, if only now, Oh, soon,—this day will sink into the night. It is so long! I have its measured tread With these same beads been scanning o'er and o'er. And now I talk so fev'rishly, instead Of counting all the leaves upon that tree. Oh! I have finished much too soon again. See! See the yeoman, calling to his dog. The shadows do upon his garden fall, For him the night has come, but brings no joy; He fears it, locks his door and is alone.— See where the maidens wander to the well. I know the manner in which each of them Will fill her bucket—that one's prettiest. Why does the stranger at the cross roads stay? Distant's his goal, I warrant. He unwinds And folds again the cloth about his feet. What an existence! Draw the thorns, yes, draw Them quickly out. You must speed. We all Must hurry on, the restless day must down And with it take this bright and scarlet glow That's lingering in radiance on my cheeks. All that is troubling us cast far away, Fling wide the thorn into the field Where waters flow and sheaves of brilliant flow'rs Are bending, glowing, yearning towards the night.— I draw my rings from off my fingers, and They're happy as the naked children are Who scamper quickly to the brook to bathe.— Now all the girls have gone— Only one maiden's left. Oh, what lovely hair! I wonder if she knows its beauty's power? Perhaps she's vain—but vanity, thou art A plaything only for the empty years. When once she has arrived where I am now, She'll love her hair, she'll let it clasp her close, Enwrap her round and whisper to her low, Like echoing harpstrings throbbing with the touch Of fev'rish fingers straying in the dark.

Dianora Monologue from A Play in VerseBy Hugo Von HofmannsthalTranslated from the German

Rehearse Dianora's monologue