In the cottage stands an arm-chair, Richly carved and wondrously; He that on it sits is happy, And the happy one am I! On the footstool sits the maiden, On my knee her arms repose; Eyes are like two stars all azure, Mouth is like the purple rose. And the stars so sweet and azure, Large as heaven, she on me throws, And she puts her lily-finger Mocking on the purple rose. No, we’re seen not by the mother, For with industry she spins; The guitar the father playing, Some old melody begins. And the maiden whispers softly, Softly, in a tone suppress’d; Many a most important secret She to me hath soon confess’d: “Since the death of aunt, however, “We can’t go to see the sight “Of the shooting-match at Goslar, “Which was such a great delight. “Whereas here ’tis very lonely “On the mountain-top, you know; “All the winter we’re entirely “As though buried in the snow. “And I am a timid maiden, “And as fearful as a child “Of the wicked mountain spirits, “Who at night roam fierce and wild”-- Sudden is the sweet one silent, Terrified by what she said, And her little eyes she covers With her little hands in dread. Louder roars outside the fir-tree, And the spinning-wheel loud hums; Meanwhile the guitar is tinkling, And the olden tune it strums: “Fear thee not, my little darling, “At the wicked spirits’ might; “Angels keep, my little darling, “Safe watch o’er thee, day and night.” 2. Fir-tree with green finger’s knocking At the window small and low, And the moon, the yellow list’ner, Through it her sweet light doth throw. Father, mother, gently snoring, In the neighbouring chamber sleep, Yet we two are gaily talking, So that wide awake we keep. “That thou’rt wont to pray too often, “Is a thing I’ll credit ne’er, “For thy lips’ convulsive quiv’ring “Ill accords with thoughts of prayer. “Ay, that quiv’ring, cold and evil, “Every time affrights me sore, “Yet thine eyes’ mild lustre husheth “Thy sad anguish evermore. “I, too, doubt if thou believest “All that is the Christian’s boast; “Dost believe in God the Father, “In the Son and Holy Ghost?”-- Ah, my child! when yet an infant Sitting on my mother’s knee, I believed in God the Father, Ruling all things wondrously; Who the beauteous earth created, And the men that on it move; Who to suns, moons, stars predestined All their tracks wherein to rove. When, my child, I grew still bigger Many more things I conceived, And my reason wax’d yet stronger, And I in the Son believed. In the Son beloved, who, loving, Open’d to us love’s door wide, And who in reward, as usual, By the mob was crucified.