eg you, therefore,
sorely-needy man that I am, if I am to teach you the rules, that
you should renew in me the sense of that which originally gave them
rise. See, here are ink, pen, and paper. I will be your scribe,
do you dictate."--"Hardly should I know how to begin."--"Relate
to me your morning dream."--"Nay, as a result of your teaching
of rules, I feel as if it had faded quite away."--"The very point
where the poet's art comes into requisition! Recall your beautiful
dream of the morning, for the rest, let it be Hans Sachs's care!"

Walther takes a moment to collect himself. Sachs sits with quill
poised over paper. Then Walther relates his dream, meeting Sachs's
request for a master-song by casting it as he goes, with the light
ease of genius, into verse and melody,--his second astonishing
improvisation, joyous as the first, but not agitated--reflective,
as if he filled Sordello's account of himself: "_I' mi son un che
quando Amore spira, noto, e quel che detta dentro vo significando._"
I am one who when Love breathes, do note, and that which he dictates
within do go expressing. All things lovely seem to have congregated
in this dream of his; it is no wonder that the lingering impression
of it enveloped him with an atmosphere of Paradise, and that he
feared almost to breathe lest it be dispelled. Just the words he
has to use, without their relations, conjure up a flock of alluring
images: Morning-shine, roseate light, blossoms, perfume, air,
joy,--unimaginable joy, a garden! The idea that a poet's song is
as much a part of him as fruit is of the tree stands illustrated
by the fact that the song which falls on our ear as in its ensemble
so fresh, is yet composed in great part of the Walther-motifs with
which we have become familiar; his youth, his enthusiasm, his courage
and his love, all go into the making of his song. As he said in
answer to Kothner, what should be put into his song unless the
essence of all he had known and lived?

Glimmering beneath the rosy light of dawn, the air being laden
with the scent of flowers, a garden, he sings, full of never before
imagined attractions, had invited him to enter it....

"That was a stanza." Sachs states, as Walther pauses. "Take careful
heed now that the one following must be exactly like it."--"Why
exactly alike?" the free-born asks, ready to chafe at the shadow
of a restriction. Sachs, indulgent, makes play for this prodigious
child's sake of the to him so grave b