These brambles I will tear apart and see
What their thick undergrowth so well conceals.
Ah! Here she is again! The winter's thorn
Has been her grave these many weary years.
Wake, Kundry, wake! The winter long is past;
The spring has come! Awaken with the flowers!
How cold she is, and rigid as the dead!
I could believe her dead,--and yet I heard
Her groaning and her piteous moan erstwhile."
And kneeling down, he chafed her hands and face,
Breathed on them to awaken life again;
And at the last a tremor thrilled her through.
In deep amaze she wakened from her sleep,
And opened her sad eyes, with startled cries.
Long did she gaze on aged Gurnemanz;
Then she arose, but her whole mien was changed,--
The wildness of her former life was gone;
A tender softness shone forth from her eyes;
A gentle bearing lent an added grace;
And without word of question, or of thanks,
Away she moved as if a serving-maid.
Then Gurnemanz: "Hast thou no word for me?
Are these my thanks, that from the sleep of death
I waked thee?"
Kundry slowly bent her head,
And murmured brokenly the words: "To serve,--
O let me serve thee and the Holy Grail.
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