I would not rejoice had I proof

of his innermost love for me.

Fury more than fury musters

I cannot do, and who silently

keeps silent chokes down fear, so

this I will do. Oh my, here comes

Mother herself and all alone.

To the Queen, who enters.

O kind mother, O forgive me.

She throws herself at her feet.

Queen:

What is this for, my child? Get up.

Snow White:

No, on my knees like this for you.

Queen:

What’s with you, what makes you this way,

what is trembling so in your breast?

Stand up and tell me what is wrong.

Snow White:

Do not withdraw this gentle hand

that I would cover with kisses.

How much have I longed for its squeeze!

A shyer plea for forgiveness

has never been made as shyly

as mine to you. Forget, forgive.

Please be my merciful mother.

Let me be your good little girl

who clasps frightened to your body.

O sweet hand, I had thought of you,

you coming for my life, offering

me the apple: something not true.

Sin so fine is only contrived

of recalling all kinds of things.

My thinking is the only sin

there is here. O please absolve me

of the suspicion that wronged you.

I only want to love, love you.

Queen:

What? Did I not send the Hunter?

Did I not spur him on with kisses

to you to do this great, great sin?

You know that you’re not thinking right.

Snow White:

I just feel! A feeling thinks sharp.

It knows every little detail

of this matter. A feeling,

far more noble than to recall,

will think a situation through,

but to forgive. And its judgment,

which is devoid of all judgment,

judges more severe, simply too.

So I see nothing in thinking.

It just speculates here and there,

full of big airs and opinions,

says this happened like so and keeps

making petty condemnations.

Away with the judge who but thinks!

If he can’t feel, he must think small.

His verdict makes a belly ache.

It’s bland and drives the plaintiff mad.

It absolves the sinner of sin,

dropping the charges in one breath.

Go and fetch me this other judge,

that sweet, ignorant feeling. Hear

what it says. Oh, it says nothing.

It smiles, it kisses the sin dead,

caresses it like its sister,

chokes it with kisses. My feeling

absolves you of all sin. It lies

before you on beseeching knees

and begs, calls me sinner, me who

pleads so frightened for forgiveness.

Queen:

The poison apple I sent you;

you took a bite, of course, and died.

The dwarfs bore you in the coffin,

the one of glass, until the kiss

of the Prince brought you back to life.

That is what happened, am I right?

Snow White:

All of it’s true up to the kiss.

The defiling mouth of a man

has never before kissed these lips.

The Prince, and how he could kiss too—