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

        You lovely fisher-maiden,

          Bring now the boat to land;

        Come here and sit beside me,

          We'll prattle hand in hand.

        Your head lay on my bosom,

          Nor be afraid of me;

        Do you not trust all fearless

          Daily the great wild sea?

        My heart is like the sea, dear,

          Has storm, and ebb, and flow,

        And many purest pearl-gems

          Within its dim depth glow.

        My child, we were two children,

          Small, merry by childhood's law;

        We used to creep to the henhouse,

          And hide ourselves in the straw.

        We crowed like cocks, and whenever

          The passers near us drew—

        "Cock-a-doodle!" They thought

          'Twas a real cock that crew.

        The boxes about our courtyard

          We carpeted to our mind,

        And lived there both together—

          Kept house in a noble kind.

        The neighbor's old cat often

          Came to pay us a visit;

        We made her a bow and courtesy,

          Each with a compliment in it.

        After her health we asked,

          Our care and regard to evince—

        (We have made the very same speeches

          To many an old cat since).

        We also sat and wisely

          Discoursed, as old folks do,

        Complaining how all went better

          In those good old times we knew—

        How love, and truth, and believing

          Had left the world to itself,

        And how so dear was the coffee,

          And how so rare was the pelf.

        The children's games are over,

          The rest is over with youth—

        The world, the good games, the good times,

          The belief, and the love, and the truth.

        E'en as a lovely flower,

          So fair, so pure thou art;

        I gaze on thee, and sadness

          Comes stealing o'er my heart.

        My hands I fain had folded

          Upon thy soft brown hair,

        Praying that God may keep thee

          So lovely, pure, and fair.

        I would that my love and its sadness

          Might a single word convey,

        The joyous breezes should bear it,

          And merrily waft it away.

        They should waft it to thee, beloved,

          This soft and wailful word,

        At every hour thou shouldst hear it,

          Where'er thou art 'twould be heard.

        And when in the night's first slumber

          Thine eyes scarce closing seem,

        Still should my word pursue thee

          Into thy deepest dream.

        The shades of the summer evening lie

          On the forest and meadows green;

        The golden moon shines in the azure sky

          Through balm-breathing air serene.

        The cricket is chirping the brooklet near,

          In the water a something stirs,

        And the wanderer can in the stillness hear

          A plash and a sigh through the furze.

        There all by herself the fairy bright

          Is bathing down in the stream;

        Her arms and throat, bewitching and white,

          In the moonshine glance and gleam.

        I know not what evil is coming,

          But my heart feels sad and cold;

        A song in my head keeps humming,

          A tale from the times of old.

        The air is fresh and it darkles,

          And smoothly flows the Rhine;

        The peak of the mountain sparkles

          In the fading sunset-shine.

        The loveliest wonderful maiden

          On high is sitting there,

        With golden jewels braiden,

          And she combs her golden hair.

        With a golden comb sits combing,

        And ever the while sings she

        A marvelous song through the gloaming

        Of magical melody.

        It hath caught the boatman, and bound him

        In the spell of a wild, sad love;

        He sees not the rocks around him,

        He sees only her above.

        The waves through the pass keep swinging,

        But boatman or boat is none;

        And this with her mighty singing

        The Lorelei hath done.