The Nightingale

IV. 145.

In silent gardens, in the spring, in the darkness of the night

Sings above the rose from the east the nightingale;

But dear rose neither feeling has, nor listens it,

But under its lover's hymn waveth it and slumbers.

Dost thou not sing thus to beauty cold?

Reflect, O bard, whither art thou striding?

She neither listens, nor the bard she feels.

Thou gazest? Bloom she does; thou callest?--

Answer none she gives!

1827.

THE FLOWERET.

IV. 95.

A floweret, withered, odorless

In a book forgot I find;

And already strange reflection

Cometh into my mind.

Bloomed, where? when? In what spring?

And how long ago? And plucked by whom?

Was it by a strange hand? Was it by a dear hand?

And wherefore left thus here?

Was it in memory of a tender meeting?

Was it in memory of a fated parting?

Was it in memory of a lonely walk?

In the peaceful fields or in the shady woods?

Lives he still? Lives she still?

And where their nook this very day?

Or are they too withered

Like unto this unknown floweret?

1828.

THE HORSE.

IV. 271.

Why dost thou neigh, O spirited steed,

Why thy neck so low,

Why thy mane unshaken

Why thy bit not gnawed?

Do I then not fondle thee?

Thy grain to eat art thou not free?

Is not thy harness ornamented,

Is not thy rein of silk,

Is not thy shoe of silver,

Thy stirrup not of gold?

The steed in sorrow answer gives:

Hence am I quiet

Because the distant tramp I hear,

The trumpet's blow and the arrow's whizz

And hence I neigh, since in the field

No longer feed I shall,

Nor in beauty live and fondling,

Neither shine with harness bright.

For soon the stern enemy

My harness whole shall take

And the shoes of silver

Tear he shall from feet mine light.

Hence it is that grieves my spirit:

That in place of my chaprak

With thy skin shall cover he

My perspiring sides.

1833.

TO A BABE.

IV. 144.

Child, I dare not over thee

Pronounce a blessing;

Thou art of consolation a quiet angel

May then happy be thy lot....