Коллектив авторов - The German Classics of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, Volume 06

I have had dreams of wild love wildly nursed,
Of myrtles, mignonette, and silken tresses,
Of lips, whose blames belie the kiss that blesses,
Of dirge-like songs to dirge-like airs rehearsed.

My dreams have paled and faded long ago,
Faded the very form they most adored,
Nothing is left me but what once I poured
Into pathetic verse with feverish glow.

Thou, orphaned song, art left. Do thou, too, fade!
Go, seek that visioned form long lost in night,
And say from me—if you upon it light—
With airy breath I greet that airy shade!

Oh, fair cradle of my sorrow,
Oh, fair tomb of peace for me,
Oh, fair town, my last good-morrow,
Last farewell I say to thee!

Fare thee well, thou threshold holy,
Where my lady's footsteps stir,
And that spot, still worshipped lowly,
Where mine eyes first looked on her!

Had I but beheld thee never,
Thee, my bosom's beauteous queen,
Wretched now, and wretched ever,
Oh, I should not thus have been!

Touch thy heart?—I would not dare that:
Ne'er did I thy love implore;
Might I only breathe the air that
Thou didst breathe, I asked no more.

Yet I could not brook thy spurning,
Nor thy cruel words of scorn;
Madness in my brain is burning,
And my heart is sick and torn.

So I go, downcast and dreary,
With my pilgrim staff to stray,
Till I lay my head aweary
In some cool grave far away.

Cliff and castle quiver grayly
From the mirror of the Rhine
Where my little boat swims gaily;
Round her prow the ripples shine.

Heart at ease I watch them thronging—
Waves of gold with crisping crest,
Till awakes a half-lulled longing
Cherished deep within my breast.

Temptingly the ripples greet me
Luring toward the gulf beneath,
Yet I know that should they meet me
They would drag me to my death.

Lovely visage, treacherous bosom,
Guile beneath and smile above,
Stream, thy dimpling wavelet's blossom
Laughs as falsely as my love.

I despaired at first—believing
I should never bear it. Now
I have borne it—I have borne it.
Only never ask me How.

'Twas in the glorious month of May,
When all the buds were blowing,
I felt—ah me, how sweet it was!—
Love in my heart a-growing.

'Twas in the glorious month of May,
When all the birds were quiring,
In burning words I told her all
My yearning, my aspiring.

Where'er my bitter tear-drops fall,
The fairest flowers arise;
And into choirs of nightingales
Are turned my bosom's sighs.

And wilt thou love me, thine shall be
The fairest flowers that spring,
And at thy window evermore
The nightingales shall sing.

The rose and the lily, the moon and the dove,
Once loved I them all with a perfect love.
I love them no longer, I love alone
The Lovely, the Graceful, the Pure, the One
Who twines in one wreath all their beauty and love,
And rose is, and lily, and moon and dove.

Dear, when I look into thine eyes,
My deepest sorrow straightway flies;
But when I kiss thy mouth, ah, then
No thought remains of bygone pain!

And when I lean upon thy breast,
No dream of heaven could be more blest;
But, when thou say'st thou lovest me,
I fall to weeping bitterly.

Thy face, that fair, sweet face I know,
I dreamed of it awhile ago;
It is an angel's face, so mild—
And yet, so sadly pale, poor child!

Only the lips are rosy bright,
But soon cold Death will kiss them white,
And quench the light of Paradise
That shines from out those earnest eyes.

Lean close thy cheek against my cheek,
That our tears together may blend, love,
And press thy heart upon my heart,
That from both one flame may ascend, love!

And while in that flame so doubly bright
Our tears are falling and burning,
And while in my arms I clasp thee tight
I will die with love and yearning.

I'll breathe my soul and its secret
In the lily's chalice white;
The lily shall thrill and reëcho
A song of my heart's delight.

The song shall quiver and tremble,
Even as did the kiss
That her rosy lips once gave me
In a moment of wondrous bliss.

The stars have stood unmoving
Upon the heavenly plains
For ages, gazing each on each,
With all a lover's pains.

They speak a noble language,
Copious and rich and strong;
Yet none of your greatest schoolmen
Can understand that tongue.

But I have learnt it, and never
Can forget it for my part—
For I used as my only grammar
The face of the joy of my heart.