LITMIR.BIZ

        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.

        I have been wont to bear my head on high,

          Haughty and stern am I of mood and mien;

          Yea, though a king should gaze on me, I ween,

        I should not at his gaze cast down my eye.

        But I will speak, dear Mother, candidly:

          When most puffed up my haughty mood hath been,

          At thy sweet presence, blissful and serene,

        I feel the shudder of humility.

        Does thy soul all unknown my soul subdue,

        Thy lofty soul that pierces all things through

        And speeds on lightning wings to heaven's blue?

        Or am I racked by what my memories tell

        Of frequent deeds which caused thy heart to swell—

        That beauteous heart which loved me, ah! too well.

        With foolish fancy I deserted thee;

        I fain would search the whole world through to learn

        If in it I perchance could love discern,

        That I might love embrace right lovingly.

        I sought for love as far as eye could see,

        My hands extending at each door in turn,

        Begging them not my prayer for love to spurn—

        Cold hate alone they laughing gave to me.

        And ever search'd I after love; yes, ever

        Search'd after love, but love discover'd never,

        And so I homeward went with troubled thought;

        But thou wert there to welcome me again,

        And, ah, what in thy dear eye floated then

        That was the sweet love I so long had sought.

        Grete and Hans come dancing by,

          They shout for very glee;

        Poor Peter stands all silently,

          And white as chalk is he.

        Grete and Hans were wed this morn,

          And shine in bright array;

        But ah, poor Peter stands forlorn,

          Dressed for a working-day.

        He

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