But even by the side of Opitz and Fleming there was at least one poet of real feeling, Friedrich von Spee.[2] With all his mystic and pietist Christianity, he kept an open eye for Nature. His poems are full of disdain of the world and joy in Nature,[3] longings for death and lamentations over sin; he delighted in personifications of abstract ideas, childish playing with words and feelings, and sentimental enthusiasm. But mawkish and canting as he was apt to be, he often shewed a fine appreciation of detail. He was even--a rare thing then--fascinated by the sea. Now rages and roars the wild, wild sea, Now in soft curves lies quietly; Sweetly the light of the sun's bright glow Mirrors itself in the water below. Sad winter's past--the stork is here, Birds are singing and nests appear; Bowery homes steal into the day, Flow'rets present their full array; Like little snakes and woods about, The streams go wandering in and out. His motives, like his diminutives, are constantly recurring. He uses many bold and poetic personifications; the sun 'combs her golden hair,' the moon is a good shepherd who leads his sheep the stars across the blue heath, blowing upon a soft pipe; the sun adorns herself in spring with a crown and a girdle of roses, fills her quiver with arrows, and sends her horses to gallop for miles across the smooth sky; the wind flies about, stopping for breath from time to time; shakes its wings and withdraws into its house when it is tired; the brook of Cedron sits, leaning on a bucket in a hollow, combing his bulrush hair, his shoulders covered by grass and water; he sings a cradle song to his little brooks, or drives them before him, etc. But the most gifted poet of the set, and the most doughty opponent of Lohenstein's bombast, was the unhappy Christian Guenther.[4] He vents his feelings in verse because he must. There is a foretaste of Goethe in his lyrics, poured put to free the soul from a burden, and melodious as if by accident. As we turn over the leaves of his book of songs, we find deep feeling for Nature mingled with his love and sorrows.[5] Bethink you, flowers and trees and shades, Of the sweet evenings here with Flavia! 'Twas here her head upon my shoulder pressed; Conceal, ye limes, what else I dare not say. 'Twas here she clover threw and thyme at me, And here I filled her lap with freshest flowers. Ah! that was a good time! I care more for moon and starlight than the pleasantest of days, And with eyes and heart uplifted from my chamber often gaze With an awe that grows apace till it scarcely findeth space. To his lady-love he writes: Here where I am writing now 'Tis lonely, shady, cool, and green; And by the slender fig I hear The gentle wind blow towards Schweidnitz. And all the time most ardently I give it thousand kisses for thee. And at Schweidnitz: