Thou, orphaned song, art left. Do thou, too, fade! Go, seek that visioned form long lost in night, And say from me--if you upon it light-- With airy breath I greet that airy shade! * * * * * SONGS (1822) 1 [2] Oh, fair cradle of my sorrow, Oh, fair tomb of peace for me, Oh, fair town, my last good-morrow, Last farewell I say to thee! Fare thee well, thou threshold holy, Where my lady's footsteps stir, And that spot, still worshipped lowly, Where mine eyes first looked on her! Had I but beheld thee never, Thee, my bosom's beauteous queen, Wretched now, and wretched ever, Oh, I should not thus have been! Touch thy heart?--I would not dare that: Ne'er did I thy love implore; Might I only breathe the air that Thou didst breathe, I asked no more. Yet I could not brook thy spurning, Nor thy cruel words of scorn; Madness in my brain is burning, And my heart is sick and torn. So I go, downcast and dreary, With my pilgrim staff to stray, Till I lay my head aweary In some cool grave far away. 2 [3] Cliff and castle quiver grayly From the mirror of the Rhine Where my little boat swims gaily; Round her prow the ripples shine. Heart at ease I watch them thronging-- Waves of gold with crisping crest, Till awakes a half-lulled longing Cherished deep within my breast. Temptingly the ripples greet me Luring toward the gulf beneath, Yet I know that should they meet me They would drag me to my death. Lovely visage, treacherous bosom, Guile beneath and smile above, Stream, thy dimpling wavelet's blossom Laughs as falsely as my love. 3[4] I despaired at first--believing I should never bear it. Now I have borne it--I have borne it. Only never ask me How. * * * * * A LYRICAL INTERMEZZO (1822-23) 1[5] 'Twas in the glorious month of May, When all the buds were blowing, I felt--ah me, how sweet it was!-- Love in my heart a-growing. 'Twas in the glorious month of May, When all the birds were quiring, In burning words I told her all My yearning, my aspiring. 2[6] Where'er my bitter tear-drops fall, The fairest flowers arise; And into choirs of nightingales Are turned my bosom's sighs. And wilt thou love me, thine shall be The fairest flowers that spring, And at thy window evermore The nightingales shall sing. 3[7] The rose and the lily, the moon and the dove, Once loved I them all with a perfect love. I love them no longer, I love alone The Lovely, the Graceful, the Pure, the One Who twines in one wreath all their beauty and love, And rose is, and lily, and moon and dove. 4[8] Dear, when I look into thine eyes, My deepest sorrow straightway flies; But when I kiss thy mouth, ah, then No thought remains of bygone pain!