The wind puts on its breeches again, Its white and watery breeches; It flogs each billow with might and main, Till it howls and rushes and pitches. From the darksome height, with furious might Pours the rain in wild commotion; It seems as though the ancient Night Would drown the ancient Ocean. To the ship’s high mast the sea-mew clings, With hoarse and shrill shrieking and yelling; In anxious-wise she flutters her wings, Approaching disasters foretelling. 13. The storm strikes up for dancing, It blusters, pipes, roars with delight; Hurrah, how the bark is springing! How merry and wild is the night! A living watery mountain The raging sea builds tow’rd the sky; A gloomy abyss here is gaping, There, mounts a white tower on high. A vomiting, cursing, and praying From the cabin bursts forth ’mid the roar; I cling to the mast for protection, And wish I was safely on shore. 14. ’Tis evening, darker ’tis getting, Mist veils the sea from the eye; The waves are mysteriously fretting, White shadows are rising on high. From the billows the mermaid arises, And sits herself near me on shore; The veil which her figure disguises Her snow-white bosom peeps o’er. She warmly doth caress me, And takes my breath away: Too closely dost thou press me, Thou lovely water-fay! “My arms thus closely caress thee, “I clasp thee with all my might; “In hope of warmth do I press thee, “For cold indeed is the night.” The moon from her dusky cloister Of clouds, sheds a paler ray; Thine eye grows sadder and moister Thou lovely water-fay! “No sadder nor moister ’tis growing, “Mine eye is moist and wet, “For when from the wave I was going, “A drop remain’d in it yet.” The sea-mew mourns shrilly, while ocean Is growling and heaving its spray; Thy heart throbs with raging emotion, Thou lovely water-fay! “My heart throbs with raging emotion, “Emotion raging and wild; “For I love thee with speechless devotion, “Thou darling human child!” 15. When I before thy dwelling At morning happen to be, I rejoice, my little sweet one, When thee at thy window I see. With thy dark-brown eyes so piercing My figure thou dost scan: Who art thou, and what ails thee, Thou strange and sickly man? “I am a German poet, “Well known in the German land; “When the best names in it are reckon’d, “My name amongst them will stand. “My little one, that which ails me “Ails crowds in the German land; “When the fiercest sorrows are reckon’d, “My sorrows amongst them will stand.” 16.