The winds are piping, hither, thither bending The red-tinged leaves, that from the trees fall fast, The bare plain steams, the wood sighs ’neath the blast, The worst of all comes next--the rain’s descending! 43. Late autumnal mists all-dripping Spread o’er hill and valley fair; Storms the trees of leaves are stripping, And they ghostly look, and bare. But one single sad tree only Silent and unstripp’d is seen; Moist with tears of woe, and lonely, Shaketh he his head still green. Ah! this waste my heart displayeth, And the tree, still full of life, Summer-green, thy form portrayeth, Much beloved and beauteous wife! 44. Grey’s the sky and every-day like, And the town still looks afflicted; Ever weak and castaway like, In the Elbe its form’s depicted. Long each nose is, and its blowing Tedious an affair as ever; All with pride are overflowing, Both at pomp and cringing clever. Beauteous South! O, how adore I All thy gods, thy sky’s sweet blisses, Since these human dregs once more I See, and weather foul as this is! PICTURES OF TRAVEL _THE RETURN HOME._ 1823-4. 1. On my life, a life of darkness, Once a vision sweet shone bright; Now that vision sweet hath faded, And I’m veil’d in utter night. When in darkness children wander, Soon their spirits die away, And to overcome their terror, Some loud song straight carol they. I, a foolish child, am singing In the darkness spread around; Though my song may give no pleasure, Yet mine anguish it hath drown’d. 2. In vain would I seek to discover Why sad and mournful am I; My thoughts without ceasing brood over A tale of the times gone by. The air is cool, and it darkleth, And calmly flows the Rhine; The peak of the mountain sparkleth, While evening’s sun doth shine. Yon sits a wondrous maiden On high, a maiden fair; With bright golden jewels all-laden, She combs her golden hair. She combs it with comb all-golden, And sings the while a song; How strange is that melody olden, As loudly it echoes along! It fills with wild terror the sailor At sea in his tiny skiff; He looks but on high, and grows paler, Nor sees the rock-girded cliff. The waves will the bark and its master At length swallow up, then methought ’Tis Lore-ley who this disaster With her false singing hath wrought. 3. My heart, my heart is mournful, Yet May is gleaming like gold; I stand, ’gainst the linden reclining, High over the bastion old. Beneath, the moat’s blue water Flows peacefully along; A boy his bark is steering, And fishes, and pipes his song.