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And Heaven sends breezes and the rays of day.
Poor sinner! was it hatred of the world
Abused thy young heart to so great extreme
That thou dost fear the sun, and heaven's fair face?
Scarcely imprisoned in her living grave,
None saw her, through the window of the tower.
Receive upon her lips the wind's fresh breath,
Nor look upon the heaven in sunshine beauty,
Or the sweet flowerets on the plain of earth.
Or, dearer hundred-fold, her fellow-men.

'Tis only known that still she is in life;
For when betimes a holy pilgrim wanders
Near her retreat by night, a sweet, low sound
Holds him awhile. Certain it is the sound
Of pious hymns. And when the village children
Together in the oak-grove sport at eve,
Then from the window shines a streak of white,
As 'twere a sunbeam from the rising dawn.
Is it an amber ringlet of her hair.
Or lustre of her slender, snowy hand
Blessing those innocent heads? The chivalry
Hear as they pass the corner tower these words:
"Thou art Konrad! Heaven! Fate is now fulfilled!