a twofold view, sweet and terrible,

thoughtful and beautiful. Look there,

with your own eyes, see for yourself.

Snow White:

No, say, what’s going on? Just tell me.

From your lips then I could gather

such a picture’s subtle detail.

If you paint it, surely you will

cleverly, prudently temper

the view’s poignancy. Now, what goes?

Rather than look, I’d rather hear.

Prince:

It is the most lovely passion

that ever inflamed two lovers.

The Queen kisses the Hunter’s lips,

and he gives kiss after kiss back.

They sit beneath the willow tree,

whose long branches flutter downward

on both their heads. The grass kisses

the tangle of interlocked feet.

The wood bench sighs under the press

of their bodies making one body

in the rapture of their embrace.

O, so a tiger pair would mate

in the jungle, far from the real world.

The sweet bliss makes them one, tears them

apart just to bring them closer

all over again. I’m speechless,

imageless at such an image.

Will you see it and be speechless?

Snow White:

No, such a thing would disgust me.

Come away from that filthy scene.

Prince:

The colors barely release me

from its spell. It is a painting,

and sweet love is its painter.

O, how she lies down there, this Queen,

being crushed inside his strong arms.

How she cries from passion and how

her beau smothers her with kisses,

like one smothering a bowl of food,

no, a sky, this mouth opening

on heavenly passion itself.

That rogue is utterly shameless.

He thinks his green hunting jacket

protects him from barbs. Here’s a barb,

what seems to bewitch me up here.

O, I’m furious. It’s this woman!

Not this wretch. O, just that woman!

Something does wrong to that crude wretch.

Alas, this sweet, this sweet woman.—

If I could only lose the sense

of what I saw. Now I’m lost.

A storm rages above it all,

what is called love, wishes being called,

but no longer. Go, everything.

Snow White:

Woe unto me that I must hear.

Prince:

Woe unto us that I must see.

Snow White:

O, how I long for nothing more

than to be smiling and dead, dead.

This I am too and always was.—

I’ve never felt life’s seething storm.

I feel as still as this soft snow

that lies for a ray of sunlight

that accepts it. I’m snow this way—

and melt away with a warm breeze

meant not for me but for the spring.

Sweet is this seeping down. Dear earth,

receive me unto your dwelling!

The sun is too painful for me.

Prince:

Do I give you this terrible pain?

Snow White:

O no, not you. You could never!

Prince:

How lovely you are, how you laugh

for me, come smiling! Don’t love me.

I simply disturb your repose.

O, to have left your coffin alone!