SONGS FROM HEINE.
In the north-land standeth a pine-tree
Alone, on a hill-top bare.
It sleepeth beneath a mantle
Of snow and frost-work rare.
It dreameth long of a palm-tree
Which, silent as a star,
On the burning desert mourneth
In Orient lands afar.
A LOVELY flower thou seemest,
So tender, sweet, and true;
And, as I gaze, steals o’er me
A sadness strange and new.
Upon thy peaceful forehead
I’d lay my hands, in prayer
That God may ever keep thee
As tender, true, and fair.
Eagerly I cry, awaking,
“Cometh she to-day?”
Eventide—my sad heart, breaking,
Speaks the answer, Nay!
In the night I know but sorrow
Till the dawn’s faint beam;
Mist-enwrapped, in each to-morrow,
Agony of dream.
He who for the first time loveth,
Godlike, worlds of bliss doth rule;
He who twice that joy essayeth,
Luckless wight—he is a fool.
Loving where no love returneth,
Such a fool, alas!—am I;
Sun and moon and stars are laughing,
I laugh, too,—and die.
Little maid, with lips so rosy,
With thy blue eyes, sweet and clear,
All my thoughts to thee are flying,
All my life is with thee, dear!
Slowly pace the leaden-footed
Hours that mark the winter’s night;
Ah, that I were now beside thee,
Gazing, murmuring my delight!
Kisses would I press, my darling,
On thy little hand to-night;
Nay—a tear should fall, unbidden,
On thy little hand so white.
(EICHENDORFF.)
It was as if the heavens
Had kissed the earth to rest,
And she lay dreaming of them
With flowers upon her breast.
The fields and murmuring woodland
Were bathed in fairest light,
So soft the breeze’s whisper,
So starry-clear the night!
On outspread wings uplifted
My spirit fain would roam
Through cloudland realms unbounded,
To rest at last—at home.