Breaking thro' the waving fogs Forth the moon is coming, And on the gloomy acres She gloomy light is shedding. Along the wintry, cheerless road Flies the rapid troika The little bell monotonous Wearily is tinkling. A certain homefulness is heard In the driver's lengthy lays: Now light-hearted carelessness, Now low-spirited sadness. Neither light, nor a dark hut ... Only snow and silence.... Striped mileposts are alone The travellers who meet us. Sad I feel and weary.... On the morrow, Nina, To my beloved I returning Forget myself shall by the fire And scarce eno' at her shall gaze. Loudly of my watch the spring Its measured circle is completing And us the parter of the wearied, Midnight, not shall separate. Sad I'm, Nina; my journey's weary; Slumbering now, my driver is quiet The little bell is monotonous And darkened now is the moon's face. 1826. Poems of Love. THE STORM-[MAID]. IV. 146. Hast thou seen on the rock the maid, In robe of white above the waves, When seething in the storm dark Played the sea with its shores,-- When the glare of lightning hourly With rosy glimmer her lighted up, And the wind beating and flapping Struggled with her flying robe? Beautiful's the sea in the storm dark, Glorious is the sky even without its blue But trust me: on the rock the maid Excels both wave, and sky, and storm. 1825. THE BARD. III. 43. Have ye heard in the woods the nightly voice Of the bard of love, of the bard of his grief? When the fields in the morning hour were still, The flute's sad sound and simple Have ye heard? Have ye met in the desert darkness of the forest The bard of love, the bard of his grief? Was it a track of tears, was it a smile, Or a quiet glance filled with melancholy, Have ye met? Have ye sighed, listening to the calm voice Of the bard of love, of the bard of grief? When in the woods the youth ye saw And met the glance of his dulled eyes, Have ye sighed? 1816. SPANISH LOVE-SONG. IV. 136. Evening Zephyr Waves the ether. Murmurs, Rushes The Guadalquivir. Now the golden moon has risen, Quiet,... Tshoo ... guitar's now heard.... Now the Spanish girl young O'er the balcony has leaned. Evening Zephyr Waves the ether. Murmurs, Rushes The Guadalquivir. Drop thy mantle, angel gentle, And appear as fair as day! Thro' the iron balustrade Put thy wondrous tender foot! Evening Zephyr Waves the ether. Murmurs, Rushes The Guadalquivir. 1824. [LOVE.] IV. 152.