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.... THE POET. (IV. 2). Ere the poet summoned is To Apollo's holy sacrifice In the world's empty cares Engrossed is half-hearted he. His holy lyre silent is And cold sleep his soul locks in; And of the world's puny children, Of all puniest perhaps is he. Yet no sooner the heavenly word His keen ear hath reached, Than up trembles the singer's soul Like unto an awakened eagle. The world's pastimes him now weary And mortals' gossip now he shuns To the feet of popular idol His lofty head bends not he. Wild and stern, rushes he, Of tumult full and sound, To the shores of desert wave, Into the widely-whispering wood. 1827. TO THE POET. SONNET. (IV. 9).