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

        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.

        On the wings of song far sweeping,

          Heart's dearest, with me thou'lt go

        Away where the Ganges is creeping;

          Its loveliest garden I know—

        A garden where roses are burning

          In the moonlight all silent there;

        Where the lotus-flowers are yearning

          For their sister belovèd and fair.

        The violets titter, caressing,

          Peeping up as the planets appear,

        And the roses, their warm love confessing,

          Whisper words, soft-perfumed, to each ear.

        And, gracefully lurking or leaping,

          The gentle gazelles come round:

        While afar, deep rushing and sweeping,

          The waves of the Ganges sound.

        We'll lie there in slumber sinking

          Neath the palm-trees by the stream,

        Rapture and rest deep drinking,

          Dreaming the happiest dream.

        The lotos flower is troubled

          By the sun's too garish gleam,

        She droops, and with folded petals

          Awaiteth the night in a dream.

        'Tis the moon has won her favor,

          His light her spirit doth wake,

        Her virgin bloom she unveileth

          All gladly for his dear sake.

        Unfolding and glowing and shining

          She yearns toward his cloudy height;

        She trembles to tears and to perfume

          With pain of her love's delight.

        The Rhine's bright wave serenely

          Reflects as it passes by

        Cologne that lifts her queenly

          Cathedral towers on high.

        A picture hangs in the dome there,

          On leather with gold bedight,

        Whose beauty oft when I roam there

          Sheds hope on my troubled night.

        For cherubs and flowers are wreathing

          Our Lady with tender grace;

        Her eyes, cheeks, and lips half-breathing

          Resemble my loved one's face.

        I am not wroth, my own lost love, although

        My heart is breaking—wroth I am not, no!

        For all thou dost in diamonds blaze, no ray

        Of