The poem
Enthusiastic was the crowd That hailed him with delight; The wine was bright, the laughter loud And glorious the night. But when at dawn he drove away With echo of their cheer, To where his little daughter lay, Then he knew-- Fear.
How strangely still the house! He crept On tip-toe to the bed; And there she lay as if she slept With candles at her head. Her mother died to give her birth, An angel child was she; To him the dearest one on earth . . . How could it be?
'O God! If she could only live,' He thought with bitter pain, 'How gladly, gladly would I give My glory and my gain. I have created many a part, And many a triumph known; Yet here is one with breaking heart I play alone.'
Beside the hush of her his breath Came with a sobbing sigh. He babbled: 'Sweet, you play at death . . . 'Tis I who die.'