Читать книгу The German Classics of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, Volume 06 - Коллектив авторов, Ю. Д. Земенков, Koostaja: Ajakiri New Scientist - Страница 5

  '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.

  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 light into thy heart's night finds its way.

  I saw thee in a dream. Oh, piteous sight!

  I saw thy heart all empty, all in night;

  I saw the serpent gnawing at thy heart;

  I saw how wretched, O my love, thou art!

  When thou shalt lie, my darling, low

    In the dark grave, where they hide thee,

  Then down to thee I will surely go,

    And nestle in beside thee.

  Wildly I'll kiss and clasp thee there,

    Pale, cold, and silent lying;

  Shout, shudder, weep in dumb despair,

    Beside my dead love dying.

  The midnight calls, up rise the dead,

    And dance in airy swarms there;

  We twain quit not our earthly bed,

    I lie wrapt in your arms there.

  Up rise the dead; the Judgment-day

    To bliss or anguish calls them;

  We twain lie on as before we lay,

    And heed not what befalls them.

  A young man loved a maiden,

    But she for another has sigh'd;

  That other, he loves another,

    And makes her at length his bride.

  The maiden marries, in anger,

    The first adventurous wight

  That chance may fling before her;

    The youth is in piteous plight.

  The story is old as ages,

    Yet happens again and again;

  The last to whom it happen'd,

    His heart is rent in twain.

  A lonely pine is standing

    On the crest of a northern height;

  He sleeps, and a snow-wrought mantle

    Enshrouds him through the night.

  He's dreaming of a palm-tree

    Afar in a tropic land,

  That grieves alone in silence

    'Mid quivering leagues of sand.

  My love, we were sitting together

    In a skiff, thou and I alone;

  'Twas night, very still was the weather,

    Still the great sea we floated on.

  Fair isles in the moonlight were lying,

    Like spirits, asleep in a trance;

  Their strains of sweet music were sighing,

    And the mists heaved in an eery dance.

  And ever, more sweet, the strains rose there,

    The mists flitted lightly and free;

  But we floated on with our woes there,

    Forlorn on that wide, wide sea.

  I see thee nightly in dreams, my sweet,

    Thine eyes the old welcome making,

  And I fling me down at thy dear feet

    With the cry of a heart that is breaking.

  Thou lookest at me in woful wise

    With a smile so sad and holy,

  And pearly tear-drops from thine eyes

    Steal silently and slowly.

  Whispering a word, thou lay'st on my hair

    A wreath with sad cypress shotten;

  awake, the wreath is no longer there,

    And the word I have forgotten.